


every me and every you

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [26]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Badster, Kedgeup, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Shibari, SpicyKustard, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, cross-universe bullshit shenanigans, kustard - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-06-07 20:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Various short snippets set in the 'ain't this the life' series that didn't fit elsewhere. Rating and content warnings may vary.





	1. something for the pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the end notes

When Sans passes through the living room on his way to the kitchen for a quick 3 AM snack, Papyrus is on the couch.

It's not unusual for Papyrus to be awake at night. He sleeps resentfully, usually only for a few hours here and there when his body gives out. He tries to keep it down for Sans's sake, but Sans has gotten used to hearing him move around or finding him awake in the small hours futzing around on the undernet. What's unusual is that Papyrus is just... sitting there, staring at the floor, absently petting the dog on his lap. Papyrus doesn't sit still unless something's up.

Sans comes around the couch and sits next to Papyrus. Fuck sleep anyway. If there’s one thing in this stupid world he still lets himself care about whole-heartedly, it’s his brother. It’s going to stay that way no matter how many times his notes say the kid reset or how many nights of sleep it costs him. Papyrus is the whole point.

He bumps shoulders with Papyrus, letting him know he's there. Then he waits.

"Brother..." Papyrus begins, and then hesitates. It's not like him to hesitate, not with Sans, and a knot of anxiety tightens in Sans's chest. "You know that judgy thing you do?"

"Yeah," Sans says.

Papyrus fidgets, his hands wringing together hard enough to crack a bone. Then he blurts, "Am I a bad person?"

Okay, of all the things Sans braced himself for, that wasn't one of them. He sits back to look at Papyrus's face. " _What_? No, dude, of course you're not. You're the coolest guy I know."

He's lied too many times to Papyrus and he knows it, but it still stings when he sees that Papyrus doesn't quite believe him even when he's telling the truth. Papyrus wrings his hands harder. "Yes. Of course."

"Hey." Sans puts his hand on top of both of Papyrus's, making him stop. "Okay. What brought this up? Did somebody say something to you?"

"No, that's not it," Papyrus says immediately. Sans wouldn't put it past him to lie to smooth things over, but it seems to be the truth. "I just..."

He trails off again. Sans gives him a second to continue, then nudges him. "Yeah, you're very just. Maybe you oughta be the judge instead of me."

Papyrus brightens a little. "I could wear a wig."

"Make it a whole look," Sans agrees. "Gavel and everything. You just what?"

Papyrus sighs. Painstakingly, he says, "I don't make it a habit of napping, you understand. But sometimes I have dreams."

Yeah. Everybody seems to, these days. He's picked that up in bits and pieces. Dogamy dreams about outliving his wife. Tori dreams about killing Frisk in that fight they had in the ruins. Undyne dreams about fighting to hold her melting body together. Alphys dreams about waterfalls and a long, long drop. Grillby's is getting a lot more business these days, with all the dreaming going around.

"Dreams are wild stuff," Sans says. "I have this one where your dog ends up the king."

"He's not my dog!" Papyrus says, scowling. "That mutt is a menace and is way too annoying to be anyone's dog but yours!"

Sans just looks at the dog currently dead to the world in Papyrus's lap. As if on cue, the dog's tail swishes a couple times like he's dreaming of stealing bones. Papyrus glares like the dog is doing it to personally spite him, which isn't out of the question. Sans has never understood their relationship.

"What dreams?" Sans asks.

That immediately wipes the affectionate frustration off Papyrus's face. He looks younger suddenly. Sans holds his hands a little tighter.

"I have dreams about hurting people," Papyrus says. 

"Like fighting?" Sans asks. Papyrus wouldn't kill anybody but he can hit pretty fucking hard when he wants to.

Quietly, Papyrus says, "Sometimes I'm hurting you."

The knot pulls tighter. Sans schools his expression into smiling blankness. He doesn't look down at his slightly crooked ring finger.

( _"Are you sure?" Papyrus asks, fretful and small in the bright expanse of Gaster's lab. "Maybe we can try something else!"_

_Over his shoulder, Gaster waits. His expression is impassive, but his eyes rest on the clock on the wall. The nutrient glop in the feeding tube won't hold out forever and without that, the experiment is useless. Any damage will just dust Sans and they'll never know if the constant drip of food through a feeding tube can keep a monster's HP from dropping if they're hurt._

_It has to be Papyrus. Nobody has his brother's control. They've sparred before and Papyrus's attacks just shave decimal points off._

_"I don't want to hurt you," Papyrus says. "Can we just-- not do this, maybe? Or we can switch places!"_

_Gaster gives Sans a look. It's the one that says Sans can leave any time if he'd like to eat out of a dumpster tonight. If they want to eat, they have to earn their keep. Nothing is free._

_"The doc gave me something so I won't feel a thing," Sans lies. "It's okay, buddy. This is gonna help people."_

_And isn't that the bitch of it all. This isn't pointless sadism. Gaster is using the experiment results to help the kingdom. If this experiment works, it'll save lives. Besides, it's not like Gaster wasn't clear from the start. He told Sans he'd be helping with experiments, and well, here they are. It's not Gaster's fault Sans was stupid enough to think he meant data analysis._

_Papyrus hesitates, then takes hold of the finger he's going to break. "Brother, are you really sure?"_

_"It'll be okay, Pap," Sans says. "Trust me."_ )

That was a long time ago. Gaster is gone. It's over.

It's supposed to be over.

"You haven't done anything wrong," Sans says. "Look, I'm fine. Not a scratch on me. It was just a dream."

"I know!" Papyrus says, frustration in every syllable. "I know that! It was just an awful dream! But it felt--"

Like a memory.

There's no reason both of them should have to remember what happened in that lab. Sans would erase his own memory if he could. He's been trying to, shoving every thought of Gaster as deep as it'll go. It feels like Edge bringing up the truth about his soul disturbed everything else he had buried too. Like a seance for all the ghosts in Sans's head.

And now Papyrus is dreaming about it. Or maybe Papyrus has been dreaming about it for a while now. If Sans hadn't stumbled on him, would Papyrus have come to him about this or would they just go on like they have been?

Papyrus used to tell him everything once. Then again, Sans has never hidden so much from him.

"Sorry," Sans says.

Papyrus sighs from the bottom of his soul. "It's fine! I'm fine. The great Papyrus is always fine!"

"Even great people can be not fine," Sans says.

Papyrus gives him side-eye. "You're such a reliable source when it comes to fineness and the lack thereof."

It's not like Papyrus isn't very aware that Sans is a hypocrite. Lightly, Sans says, "Are you calling me a bad influence?"

"I'm calling you the worst influence!" One of the dog's ears flicks at the volume of Papyrus's voice. "Did you know that Frisk naps eight hours every night? And Toriel _encourages_ it!"

"Wow," Sans says. "Must be one of doze mom things."

"Perhaps so. Imagine what a horrible influence I avoided by not having a mother! You--" Papyrus frowns as the pun catches up to him. "Why are you like this?"

"You know you think I'm hilarious," Sans says.

"I think no such thing," Papyrus says severely, but the corners of his mouth are twitching. "Clearly your creepy face-reading thing is irrevocably broken."

"Not that broken," Sans says. He pats Papyrus's hands and lets him go, leaning back into the couch cushions. "There's something still bugging you."

Papyrus grimaces and looks away, fixing his eyes on the dog like he's not entirely sure how he got there. "You, obviously! Which is hardly new!"

Sans stretches out an arm and scratches under the dog's chin. The little chaos monster whuffs under his breath. "That's my job, isn't it?"

"Why must it be the only one you dedicate yourself to?" Papyrus gripes. 

Sans shrugs. "You're the most important person in my life."

Papyrus turns his head sharply to look at him, startled. Sans grins at him, soft and fond, and Papyrus huffs a little, looking away. "Yes! Well. I feel the same. You are my brother, after all. Someone has to look after you."

That's a little depressing. It's not supposed to be reciprocal. It's Papyrus's job to just... live his life and be happy instead of worrying about Sans.

Without even turning his head, Papyrus says, "Don't you give me that look, Sans middle name the Skeleton."

"I'm not giving you a look."

"I can feel you giving me a look. Do we have to have another talk about your terrible self-worth? Because I still have the hand puppets."

"No, I'm good," Sans says quickly. He hasn't really recovered from the last one. "Weren't we talking about your personal problems?"

"You are my very personal problem, brother," Papyrus says sweetly.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"That's not even a little bit true." Papyrus throws up his hands. "Yes, fine, maybe one other teensy thing is bothering me."

Good to know Sans's fraternal instincts still work. "Okay. You wanna talk about it?"

"I still don't want to have sex with people," Papyrus says. "Or maybe not now but at some future point with somebody very special and romantical? But no one now."

Sans's not gonna say he's not selfishly relieved. Papyrus is a grown-ass man and Sans doesn't care so long as he's happy, but he’d rather dust than think about his little brother having sex. The fact that there's a universe where Sans is the one Papyrus would be fucking makes him want to a) throw up and b) cut his own fucking hands off just to be sure.

"A lot of people are like that," Sans says. "It's not just you. It's not a problem or anything."

"I know that, Sans. We do have the undernet."

"Okay. 'M just saying. Doing the supportive brother thing. So what's the problem?"

Another huge sigh. Papyrus's shoulders hunch as he sinks in on himself a little. "I don't have very many things in common with Edgy Me. Aside from being very great. But I might be like him in... certain matters."

Oh.

Carefully, Sans says, "So those dreams you have about hurting people aren’t all bad."

Papyrus makes a wretched noise and puts his face in his hands. The dog squeaks awake and huffily extracts himself as Sans sits up and puts an arm around his brother.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sans soothes. He's terrible at comforting people. A bad joke or a sandwich or occasionally using threats he won't back up to terrify the shit out of someone who's bothering Frisk, he can do. He's never been good at dealing with an upset Papyrus. "No, buddy, it's okay. It's fine."

"I don't want to want to hurt people," Papyrus says into his hands. "I'm a terrible person. I'm a brutal guy."

"Do you think Edge is a terrible person?" Sans asks. Granted, it’s pretty debatable. Fuck knows the judge has an opinion on the matter.

Predictably, Papyrus, who has faith in everyone, says, "No, of course not, but--"

"You're not a terrible person." Sans picks one word at a time like negotiating through a minefield. The last thing he wants to do is fuck up and give Papyrus the idea that this is anything to be ashamed of. "Here’s how I figure. It's like a fight, y'know? There's a difference between duking it out with Undyne to see what you can both do and going out and shaking people down for lunch money. If you want to hurt people, there are people who want somebody who's a cool guy to take care of them."

Papyrus sniffs. "Someone like Red."

"Yeahhhh, maybe not like Red. I hope you have better standards than I do."

Papyrus gives a watery laugh and scolds, "Sans! What a thing to say about your hatefriend."

Sans relaxes a little. If Papyrus isn't too upset to scold him, he'll be okay. "He deserves it. But yeah, someone like Red who isn't a total asshole. I knew some nice folks in college who were into that. Could dig up some email addresses, maybe."

"You know everybody," Papyrus grouses, a familiar complaint. He clears his throat and scrubs at his face before he lifts his head, like Sans can't figure out he was tearing up. "Brother, you're squishing me. Must you be so emotional?"

"My bad." Sans gives him a last squeeze and lets him go. "Or it could just be some dreams that don't matter. That's cool too. It's your call."

"Dreams always matter," Papyrus says. "... I suppose I could talk to Edgy Me."

There's part of Sans that wants to balk at that. He could call Red and Edge's version of kink a lot of things, but safe isn't one of them. But there's no question that Edge knows what he's doing. Monsters don't have as many hangups as the humans do about sex, but most of them don't talk about it. It's private. Edge will be honest with him, at least, which is one up on Sans.

"Maybe he's got an advanced relationship manual," Sans says. He doesn't mention that Edge offered it to him.

Papyrus brightens. "Well, yes, he's me and so he'll be thoroughly prepared for all emergencies. A manual would be helpful."

"There you go," Sans says. 

Some part of him deep down, the part that's not scrambling to be reassuring, is reeling. He'd never have expected Papyrus to be into the whole sadism thing, not the guy who couldn't bring himself to capture Frisk when he knew it'd end up with Frisk being killed for their soul. Not Papyrus, who'd choose to die before he took somebody's life.

But then again, doesn't it make a weird kind of sense? Papyrus fights to see what people are made of, to challenge himself and them, and doesn't that mean a little (or a lot of) pain? It's not like he wasn't willing to beat Frisk until they couldn't go on anymore. And Papyrus likes to take care of people; he always insists on healing Undyne after she tussles, even with her loudly complaining that she's too tough for any wussy-ass icepacks or bandages. Papyrus has a way of gently steamrolling people so they're left wondering what the hell happened.

Papyrus would be a good-- fuck, Sans doesn't even know the right word. Top? Dom? Whatever. Then again, as far as Sans is concerned, his brother would be good at whatever he puts his mind to. Papyrus is cool like that.

Not quite looking at him, Papyrus says, "Is it really okay? 

The unspoken question: _or are you just lying to me again to make me feel better?_ Another bad habit coming back to bite Sans in the ass.

"Pretty sure you're the only one who can answer that question," Sans says. "But if you're asking whether I'm freaked out or mad or whatever, no. I don't judge you."

"You're a judge."

"I don't judge _you_ ," Sans says, laying stress on the last word. He knows what kind of person his brother is. He wouldn't change him for the world.

(Even if it gets Papyrus killed.)

Papyrus gives him a long look, searching his expression. At the moment, Sans has nothing to hide. Then Papyrus smiles and reaches out to pat Sans's head.

"You're a frustrating mess of deceit and interpersonal issues and sometimes I want to throw you in the ocean," Papyrus says.

Sans shrugs. "That's fair."

"Still, great as I am, I may not say this enough," Papyrus says. "You're a good brother and I love you."

Guilt is a stabbing pain in Sans's soul, a warning shot. He turns his wince into a yawn. "Thanks, Pap. You too. Anyway, you okay now? You want to watch some TV or something?"

Papyrus takes his hand back, frowning like he saw a little too much. "The equitable thing to do would be for you to discuss something that's bothering _you_."

"Kinda full up on emotional honesty for the night," Sans says. "Filled my quota for the week. Maybe the month."

"Of course," Papyrus says. There's something bitter in his smile. He puts an arm out across the back of the couch. Sans has watched Edge do the same thing the same exact way, a dizzying moment of deja vu. "If we watch TV, you'll just fall asleep on me."

"Probably," Sans says. “Still. You mind some company?” Between the jobs and the thing with Red, he feels like he's been neglecting Papyrus. Or maybe the flashback to the labs rattled him a little. Either way, he doesn't want to just leave Papyrus to worry by himself until morning.

"I suppose I am a very comforting presence! Very well." Papyrus pats the sofa and Sans shifts over to get tucked securely under his arm. Papyrus makes a discontented noise. "You're cold. Why are you cold?"

"Dunno. You're such a cool guy it's rubbing off on me, I guess," Sans says. Edge's book is still in his inventory, untouched. He needs to get around to that. He wouldn't put it past Edge to quiz him.

"Tch," Papyrus says, holding Sans a little tighter. "Luckily for you, I double as a space heater! I'm very useful. I rarely even catch on fire."

Sans makes an agreeable noise; Papyrus really hasn’t set himself on fire lately. Papyrus is warm and solid against him, the battle body swapped out for a soft knitted sweater Toriel bought him. Sans can feel himself drifting off already. Maybe Red has a point about sleeping better with company.

Papyrus turns on the television, a brief blurt of noise before he turns it down. He's been fascinated with human infomercials lately, all the little things humans invented to do what monsters can do with magic. There's a blanket that doubles as a body bag or something. The host sounds bored under all that artificial brightness. It's the expression of someone who dearly wants to be in their own bed right now. He should take notes from Mettaton. The whole thing would be way more exciting with chainsaws.

"Sans?" Papyrus says after a while. There’s a sly note to his voice. “Since you’re such a good brother…”

“Yeah, Pap?”

“Pick up the sock.”

***

_It’s an accident._

_None of them have been sleeping much lately, not since the machine started spitting out reports with massive timeline fuckery. Sans and Gaster have always lived in the lab but Alphys has pretty much moved in too. Everyone’s living on coffee, ramen and cat naps caught between experiments, and Sans hasn’t seen Gaster stop moving in days. One second he and Gaster are walking down the long catwalk above the core. Then Gaster stumbles and goes over the edge. Sans always told him to put up a fucking safety rail._

_It’s a long drop. Even taken off-guard, Sans has time to grab Gaster by the soul and drag him back up. He even raises his control hand, an automatic reflex._

_And then he remembers. He remembers the needles, and the broken bone, and gagging on the feeding tube when he tried to breathe. He remembers the look in Papyrus’s eyes when he realized that Sans lied to him about Gaster giving him something for the pain._

__

__

_Sans does what he does best: nothing at all._

_Their eyes meet just before Gaster hits the lava. It’s the only time Sans ever sees him smile._

***

"What's black and goes up and down?" Red asks.

Thankfully, Grillby's has a lunch crowd these days, humans slumming it on the monster side of town to eat magic food and gawk at the locals, so there's a little background noise to drown out this conversation. Sans envies the people who can't hear it.

Sans pokes at his fries without much interest. "Let me guess. It's a dead baby."

"A dead baby in a toaster," Red says, and laughs at his own joke. Sans wonders yet again why the hell he has sex with this dude.

Sans sighs. "You realize this is why we can't sit at the bar anymore."

"Hey, Grillby thinks my jokes are hilarious," Red says. "He loved the one about the baby getting thrown in the furnace. It's not like I'm telling them to Toriel, I'm not a total fucking asshole."

"You're a total fucking asshole," Sans says. "You're just a total fucking asshole who's scared of Tori."

"Shit, of course I'm scared of her. You know what our version got up to?" Red shudders, but his tone is faintly admiring. Almost fond. "Crazy bitch. You gonna eat that or just fingerbang it?"

Sans pushes the basket of fries over. "Knock yourself out."

Red gasps, putting a hand to his chest. "Sansy, this is so sudden. Did you get a collar with a real shiny buckle? I ain't easy."

There's probably bullshit after that. Sans thinks Red is still talking, but all his focus is suddenly on Red's hand. It's scarred as hell but every finger is straight, even the ring finger. Unbroken.

"'-- with me, buddy?"

Sans blinks, coming back to the bar and to Red staring at him through slightly narrowed eyes. Intelligently, he says, "Huh?"

"You spaced out," Red says.

Red doesn’t demand to know why. He just lays out a long stretch of uncomfortable silence for Sans to fill. Sans recognizes the tactic. That doesn’t mean he’s immune.

It's broad daylight. Grillby's is as good as his second home, comfortingly familiar even with the influx of humans. But Sans can't make himself say the name Gaster, even here, even to the one person he knows would recognize it. He's already risked saying it out loud to Red once. Some things come when you call their name.

They've gotten this far without really talking about Gaster, just dropping his name once and then never again. Seems a shame to ruin that stellar record.

Besides. Sans is a little afraid that if he asks Red if he ever helped Gaster with his experiments, he won't see any recognition in Red's eyes. If Red managed to keep Edge safe from Gaster even in murderworld, Sans must’ve fucked up massively. Better not to know.

So he says, "I was thinking you fingering me."

It's way blunter than he usually is, a conversational feint a blind man could see coming. Red’s grin widens, a silent _I know exactly what you’re doing but I’m gonna let it go._ Red doesn’t actually give a shit about his stupid problems, and it’s kind of a relief. “You got a dirty mind, sweetheart. Luckily for you, I’m happy to take requests.”

“Yeah,” Sans says tiredly. “Lucky me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: flashback to medical experimentation, Gaster coercing Sans and Papyrus into said experimentation, Sans manipulating Papyrus into breaking his finger, past child abuse, flashback to Gaster's death, Sans trying and occasionally failing to be a good brother. ~~This is pretty much as deep as I plan to get into Gaster and Sans and Papyrus's backstory just as an explanation for why Sans is Like This, and it's not necessary reading to follow the rest of the series.~~ Edit: okay, I lied and the backstory is going to be a little more relevant to the main plot that I realized when I wrote this. Sorry!
> 
> I'm not sure the world needed a story about Sans trying to help Papyrus come to terms with being a nonsexual sadist, but damned if I didn't write one anyway.


	2. future spicykustard with shibari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set about a year post-series in a hypothetical future where Edge, Red and Sans have mostly figured their shit out. On tumblr somebody asked if Edge had kinks that he still wanted to try and this fic pretty much spontaneously flew into my brain.

It’s pretty rare to catch Edge off guard.

The guy is a little hypervigilant. It’s been almost two years since Edge and Red first showed up in Sans’s lab but two years of peace (mostly) isn’t enough to magically fix what Sans is pretty sure is a hardcore case of PTSD. But Sans shows up at their house and wanders out into the living room to find Edge totally absorbed in something on his phone.

Startling Edge is a bad idea, since he tends to automatically throw bones first and ask questions later. Sans takes 3/4ths cover behind a wall and says, “Something interesting, edgelord?”

Edge actually jumps, his head swiveling towards Sans, looking weirdly furtive before he settles into his habitual scowl. He closes his phone. “Nothing. Must you lurk?”

“I’m a big fan of lurking,” Sans says, strolling over to the couch. Edge shifts to make room for him, stretching an arm out across the back so Sans can curl against his side. Sans opts to stretch out with his head in Edge’s lap instead and Edge gives him a small, real smile.

Sans isn’t leaving home unless Papyrus either gets in a serious relationship (possible) or gets sick of Sans’s shit and tells him to move out (improbable, since he hasn’t done it already and Sans gave him some serious reasons last year). The longest he crashes at Red and Edge’s place is a couple weeks when Papyrus is off doing teaching conference things and that’s usually about as much concentrated togetherness as he can take. Edge compares him to a stray cat (which would be insulting if Sans didn’t know how much Edge respected their survival skills) and Sans is pretty happy to stay that way, wandering in and out of their space when he wants, eating their food, sometimes sleeping in their bed and/or deigning to sit on somebody’s lap and purr. They don’t push and they usually look happy to see him when he comes around, which is… nice. Freaky, but nice.

“Y’know, a lot of people look at porn,” Sans says mildly. “It’s perfectly normal for a growing boy your age.”

“Fuck off,” Edge says, but does not summarily dump Sans off his lap like he would Red. “I leave the porn-watching to my brother, thank you, and he says what you people make is terrible anyway. I have standards.”

Arguable, considering his terrible taste in dudes and pants, but okay. “Whatcha looking at, then? Seemed pretty interesting.”

Edge looks down at him, considering something. Then he pulls his phone back out. Sans sits up to look at what Edge is showing him and it’s… rope. Just rope tied around human models in various complicated patterns. Most of the people in the pictures are even still wearing clothes under the rope.

Sans looks at Edge. “Okay. So are you worried I’ll find out you’re kinky or something? Because I hate to tell you, buddy, but that ship sailed the first time I let you cuff me to the headboard. I’m into it, in case you’re wondering.”

Edge makes an exasperated noise. “No, it’s not that it’s bondage. It’s the specific kind of bondage.”

“The secret forbidden bondage?” Sans says. Edge gives him a look that’s almost guarded and Sans realizes for the billionth time that he’s an asshole. “Sorry. How about you tell me why this is different?”

Apparently Sans looks sincere, because Edge sighs after a moment, some of the defensiveness leaving him. He scrolls down the page, past another several pictures. “It’s more intricate. Complicated. It would take patience and skill.”

“You’re a patient and skilled guy,” Sans says. “Funny how that works out.”

“Red is not,” Edge says. “Patient, I mean. He’s not lacking in skill, for all that he prefers not to apply himself. He’s not interested.”

“That’s a shame,” Sans says. “If only you were fucking somebody else who you could, y’know, maybe ask if he’s up for it.”

Edge meets his eyes. There’s a sort of wary hunger in his expression that just guts Sans. Carefully, Edge says, “I didn’t want to pressure you. You have a habit of going along with things just to make people happy.”

“You’ve tied me up before,” Sans says. “That was okay. We could give it a shot and if I don’t like it, you can untie me. Sounds good to me.”

It’s not a big ask, but Edge looks at Sans like he’s some unexpected delight. Clearly trying to sound cool and serious, Edge warns, “It could take a while. It might be terribly dull for you.”

Sans flashes him a grin. “Good thing I’m so great at doing nothing.”

Which is how Sans ends up like this a few days later, barebones on Edge’s bed in the middle of the afternoon while Edge hums absently under his breath and arranges things to his liking. There’s a couple coils of rope, safety scissors, a bottle of water, a knitted blanket, a stack of notes in Edge’s angular handwriting, and Sans. Red’s fucked off somewhere to do whatever Red does when he’s unsupervised. Probably set fires and pickpocket orphans. It’s just the two of them.

Finally satisfied with his kinky feng shui, Edge looks Sans over, more assessment than ogling. Shame. Sans would be cool with some ogling. "Are you warm enough? I can turn the heat up."

Sans winks at him. "Yeah, I know."

Edge scoffs fondly, and very few people would have noticed him preening a little. "I'm glad to hear it, but that's less than helpful. Are you comfortable? This may take a while."

"I'm good," Sans says. It's a little weird, being fully naked while Edge is still in his shirt and pants and nothing sexual is going down, but not necessarily a bad weird. "Guess you could say I'm fit to be tied."

Edge sighs. "If terrible puns are the price I must pay for this, so be it. Will you tell me if you become uncomfortable or start feeling trapped?"

"Yep," Sans says. It's not like Edge hasn't held him down or cuffed him to the headboard before, but they went through this whole drill then too. And Sans thought _he_ was paranoid about making sure everybody had a good time. "Now seriously, go ahead. Get knotty."

Edge narrows his eyes, which probably means _yes, Sans, your puns are delightful, tell me more._ He picks up the rope, which is dyed a soft, deep blue. Nice of him to color coordinate. Sans wonders if he's got some rope in red tucked away in a closet somewhere just in case. "Give me your wrists, please."

Sans holds them out. Edge nudges them further apart, leaving more room than Sans expected him to, and then begins to wrap. The rope is softer than Sans thought, based on the little bit of research on shibari he did on Edge’s insistence.

"I treated it," Edge says without looking up from his work. There's pride in his voice. He slips the rope between Sans's radius and ulna three times, then around both wrists. "I washed, dried and oiled it. I don't want to hurt you. You mark easily."

"You complaining?" Sans says. The repetitive motion of Edge's clever hands is slightly hypnotic. Edge pauses every few seconds to check the stack of notes he has sitting beside him. There are diagrams and everything. It's kind of adorable how into this Edge is, so intense about doing it right.

Edge's mouth quirks at one corner. "Well. A few marks are acceptable. Don't pull too hard on these ties; I don't want to put undue strain on your radius."

"Okee dokee," Sans says. Struggling hard against restraints is more Red's deal than his own. He can feel the weight and gentle pressure of them and that's enough for him. 

He watches Edge make the knot around the loops of ropes. There's plenty of give around his wrists. Edge slides two fingers between Sans's bones and the ropes and looks satisfied with his work. He asks Sans, "Are you still comfortable?"

Sans tests the ropes just a little, turning his wrists to feel the rope slide over his bones. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Edge studies his bound wrists. His sockets are very dark around his burning eyelights. "You're doing so well."

Fuck, that's just cheating. But Sans relaxes like the genuine praise is a shot of morphine to his soul. "I'm so good at doing nothing I could do it with my eyes closed."

Edge strokes the back of Sans's hand, which decides quite suddenly that it's an erogenous zone. "Hush. I'm allowed to appreciate you putting your trust in me."

Hard not to with Edge checking in every other minute like Sans is made of glass. Sans grins. "I just don't have the moral fiber to tell you no."

Edge exhales and glances at the ceiling as if for patience. "Would you like to continue?"

"Yeah," Sans says. This has hardly been strenuous. Edge seems to be getting something out of it even if it has the sexual appeal of building IKEA furniture to Sans. "I think I'll survive the strain. You need me to lay down?"

"Not yet," Edge says. He rearranges himself, sitting behind Sans instead. "Better to do something simple this first time. If we do this again, maybe I'll tie your arms behind your back instead." Edge's fingers trail down his spine, a ghost of a touch. "Would you like that?"

The idea has a certain appeal. It'd be more vulnerable, the front of Sans's body totally exposed for Edge to touch him. "Maybe. Yeah."

Edge hums, amused and indulgent. "This part is a bit more complicated. I need to concentrate. Any last terrible jokes to get out of the way?"

"Nah, I'm at the end of my rope," Sans says. "Concentrate away."

So they've gotten to the part where he can just chill. It's kind of nice to just sit here with Edge a steady presence at his back. The notes crinkle and Edge strokes his hand down Sans's spine, a soothing touch. His voice is that intimate bedroom murmur that Sans's body knows very well. "Deep breath."

Sans takes one. Edge reaches around his body, rope looping around Sans's ribcage. It's snug but not to the point of claustrophobia. The pressure is soothing, like a hug or Red draped on top of him after sex. Edge pauses, a silent question, and Sans makes a vague affirmative noise.

It continues. He lets Edge work, pulling another loop of rope higher on Sans's ribs. Time passes, broken occasionally by the rustle of Edge's notes. Usually when Sans is doing nothing, his mind just keeps ticking away. He keeps it busy with jokes and formulas he remembers from grad school, anything to avoid a moment of quiet that'll let anything honest slip through. But it's startlingly peaceful in his head right now, as if Edge's deliberate calm is contagious, passed between them when Edge touches him.

Edge has him. It's all right.

He kind of spaces out for a couple minutes. It's warm. It's only when Edge says with a note of concern in his voice, "Sans," that he realizes it's the third time Edge said it.

"Yep," Sans says, turning his head towards Edge. "Yeah. Hi."

"Still all right?"

"Mm. Yeah."

The bed dips as Edge comes to sit in front of him again. Edge cups his face in one big hand, examining him. Apparently pleased, he leans in to bring their mouths together. It's a nice kiss, slow and warm.

Then Edge pulls back and goes back to the rope. He winds it through the lowest loop around Sans's ribs and pulls the new knot taut. The rope shifts a little. In its new position, it brushes against the scar on Sans's sternum every time he breathes.

"Oh," Sans says faintly. "Neat."

Edge goes still, watching Sans's face. "Too much?'

"It's good," Sans says. His voice is a little much raw than he'd like to admit. This admitting he wants things stuff is still difficult.

That's okay. Edge apparently likes the challenge. There's a smug light in his eyes before he returns to his place at Sans's back. Sans has no idea what he's doing at this point. Tying knots, presumably. The rope rubs at him, warming his bones. He's breathing unsteadily. He can see the magic at his joints starting to burn brighter. Edge hasn't even done anything yet, it's fucking ridiculous, but every graze of the rope against his sternum goes right through him.

Finally, Edge presses a kiss to his shoulder and says, "That's finished. One last thing, if you're willing."

"You're running out of places to tie," Sans says. He's just grasping for words. It's stupid; Edge'll think he's not into this, he should--

Edge traces the line of Sans's iliac crest with a fingertip. His touch sears. "Hardly, love. For tonight, I'd like to bind your legs."

"Okay," Sans says. He's got defenses against Red's bullshit because it's so much like his own, but Edge? Edge can get to him so easily. He laughs a little shakily. "You'd better plan to touch me after that, buddy."

"I am touching you," Edge says. There's a smile in his voice. His fingers stay stubbornly on Sans's hip, relatively chaste. He kisses the place where Sans's throat meets his shoulder and then gets off the bed. "Lay down."

So Sans lays down. This is where he kind of figured he'd be for the rope tying, honestly. He'd been hoping Edge didn't take it personally if he fell asleep. Ha.

Edge sits between his open legs. When Sans cracks an eye to look at him, the expression on Edge's face makes his soul do a funny, painful flip in his chest. He turns his face away. "Hey. I'm, heh, a little tied up at the moment."

"And yet you're not too distracted to make bad puns," Edge says. He rearranges Sans's leg, bending his knee. When Sans risks a glance at him, Edge has the rope in his hands again but his eyes are all for the faint, diffuse glow of magic swirling in Sans's pelvis. The naked hunger in that look is a little easier to deal with.

"I'm never too distracted to make bad puns," Sans says. "... Pretty distracted, though, I gotta say."

"Good." Edge starts to wind rope around Sans's tibula and fibula, then his femur, binding them together. _Easy access,_ Sans thinks, and shudders.

"Hey, asshole," Red says directly beside the bed. Sans jumps and winces as the ropes dig in. Red looks less than repentant, taking in the whole tableau with interest. He's ditched his clothes. Sans wonders exactly how long he's been standing there like a creeper. "You look a little strung out."

Sans stares at him. "Damn, I can't believe I didn't think of that one. I'm losing my touch."

"S'okay. I can't think of much when he's between my legs either." Red sits on the bed beside Sans. Edge makes a disgruntled noise but Red isn't in the way, exactly. There's plausible deniability to Red's in-the-wayness. "Figured I'd come in and see if you were at the fun part yet."

"All of it was fun," Edge says. He finishes Sans's left leg and moves on to the right. He's moving faster than he was with Sans's wrists, more practiced, but it's not nearly fast enough for Sans's taste right now. "But it's so like you to skip the part that involved actual work."

"It's pretty on-brand," Red agrees. With one finger, he presses the rope harder into Sans's sternum and grinds it in a little. It's going to leave a mark.

" _Fuck_ ," Sans says, soft and involuntary as breathing.

"That's the plan, yeah." Red lets go of the rope and Sans drags in half a breath to complain before he stops himself. Red leans back so Sans can get a good view of the faint crimson glow of the dick Red's formed. Apparently he’s been enjoying the show because he’s already hard. "What d’ya think, sweetheart? Can I get a piece of this action?"

Sans glances sidelong at Edge. A smile plays around the corners of Edge’s mouth. “I certainly don’t mind, but it’s your decision.”

Sans is going to end up overwhelmed whether Red’s involved or not. Might as well. It’s a little hard to shrug like this, but Sans manages. “Sure. Why not?”

“Nice.” Red curls his fingers around his own dick and gives it an idle stroke, grinning crookedly at the expression on Sans’s face. “How about you let me fuck your mouth?”

There's a fat bead of precome on the head of Red's cock. Sans can practically taste it, anticipatory spit welling up in his mouth. He swallows. His soul is beating hard. It's hard to think when it's the two of them on one, Red riling him up while Edge is so carefully calm. Sans says, "I dunno. What have you done for me lately?"

Red laughs.

"There now. Let me look at you," Edge says suddenly, breaking into their bullshit. Sans realizes belatedly that the second binding is finished. He'd been too distracted by Red to notice. Edge's full attention is on him and it's intense. Sans can feel it like Edge's hands running over him. Edge's mouth curves. "You're lovely."

Lovely has never been the word Sans would use. He gets by on personality and being a really good lay. But Edge believes it; Sans can see it written on his face. He's pretty sure he's blushing again, that damned traitorous reflex. "Uh. Thanks?"

"You do good work, boss," Red says. It's almost too soft to hear. Red isn't exactly comfortable with kindness yet. He's trying. He's trying so damn hard.

Edge looks at him for a moment, a tender vulnerability that Sans is afraid to look directly at in case he catches their attention and derails it.

 _These idiots,_ Sans thinks fondly.

Abruptly, Red clears his throat and looks away. "Now quit being a cocktease, huh?"

With a last fond look, Edge gives his attention back to Sans. It's different from the way he looks at Red, but the warmth in it still catches Sans off guard. He doesn't know what the fuck he did to get that look directed at him, but it's pretty okay.

"What shall I do with you now that I have you like this?" Edge muses.

Sans's bones feel superheated. He can't pull his legs closed and cover himself, not that he really wants to. His grin feels a little strained. "Seems like a shame to undo all this work right away.”

“It would be. You’ve been so patient,” Edge agrees. He shifts, leaning towards Sans's pelvis, bringing his mouth to it. Sans makes a hitching, involuntary noise as his magic forms a pussy before Edge even gets near it. Edge purrs, “Allow me to show my gratitude.”


	3. as close to fluff as sans and red get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the comments for the shibari fic, @talkingsoup asked if, given the purring and all the cat references, any of the dorks in ‘ain’t this the life’ ever made the cat activation noise, the little trilling noise cats make when you wake them up. My answer was THEY DO NOW. :D
> 
> Content notes: Red and Sans smoke some weed.

Red's living room smells like the inside of a bong, all smoky and green, with a dash of sweat and sex. The TV's on, some grainy human documentary about the lunar landing, but the volume is too low to make out individual words. Or maybe Sans is just that high. Probably the latter.

At least he managed to be the comparatively sober one this time. He's not sure if he's finally figured out his limits, if the weed just wasn't that strong, or if Red was hitting the pipe harder than usual. Maybe all three. Not really important.

The thing is that when Red is high, he gets cuddly. He usually insists on Sans staying close after sex anyway but now he's draped himself mostly on top of Sans, his head on Sans's chest, one arm dangling off the side of the couch. Red is warm, like a heavy blanket that purrs a rusty, thrumming purr, and Sans is kind of wasted himself, so he feels no real urge to reclaim his personal space.

(And okay, yeah, maybe Sans doesn't have the heart to tell him to move. When Red asks him if he wants to smoke up, it usually means that he's having one of his bad days.)

It's been a while since Red said anything. Fifteen minutes or so. Considering that Red couldn't shut up if you had a gun to his head, that's a little weird. Sans says, "Hey, asshole. You awake?"

Red shifts against him but doesn't grumble or bitch. He stays quiet.

Maybe a little concerned now, Sans jostles him. "Red."

Red lifts his head to blink at Sans blearily, making a little trilling noise in his throat like 'mrrp?'.

Sans stares at him and says, "Holy shit." He manages to choke back the rest of that sentence: _that was adorable, what the fuck._

He must have one hell of an expression on his face, because Red wakes up a little. It takes a second for Red to realize what just happened. When he does, his eyes widen, then narrow in warning. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Sans says. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"You didn't hear nothing."

Well, that solves the mystery of who taught Edge to get pissy when people catch him acting like an actual person. "Nope, of course not. Hey, you wanna tell me exactly what I didn't hear?"

"Shut up," Red repeats, his growl somewhat ruined by the fact that he's too high to focus his eyelights. "What'd you wake me up for?"

Red was sleeping on him. Red, the paranoid bastard, trusts him at least that much.

Sans gives himself about five seconds to feel feelings about that. Risky, but he's got the handy excuse of being high. Then he says, "My leg's falling asleep."

Red grunts and drops his head back onto Sans's chest hard enough to make him wince. "Too bad, bitch."

That's pretty much what Sans thought he'd say. He curls an arm around Red like he's navigating a minefield. Advanced cuddling. Serious business. "Dick."

"Takes one to know one," Red says, because they're both bastions of grace and maturity.

"Oh, the 'I'm rubber, you're glue' defense," Sans says. "The classic rhetorical argument. I think Plato came up with that one."

"It's a classic for a reason." Red rubs his cheek against Sans's chest, maybe wiping drool on him. That's okay. After a moment, Red says, "How about we pretend that never happened?"

Unfortunately, Sans is pretty sure he can't. He's gonna have to live with the knowledge that Red was adorable for a minute. It's a heavy burden. But he's got so much other blackmail material on Red at this point that he can stand to lose this one.

Out loud, he asks, "That what never happened?"

Red relaxes fractionally against him. "Must've been your imagination. You're really a frigging lightweight, you know that?"

"Yep," Sans agrees. "I must be."

He doesn't tell Red to go back to sleep, because that would mean actually admitting what's going on. Red does it anyway, or at least goes quiet again. Even his purr sounds softer. It takes Sans a while to realize that he started purring back.


	4. a change in management (Red and Edge backstory)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red falls down. He gets back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set a few years before ‘ain’t this the life’ so Edge and Red go by their original names. Edge is just shy of 18. Their relationship is completely nonsexual at this point but still deeply, deeply codependent. Content warnings in the end notes.

Sans wakes up. That's the first surprise.

He's in the lab, flat on his back in one of the beds. For a disoriented moment, he thinks that it’s three years ago and he just pulled another all nighter trying to figure out timelines and anomalies and whether they're all going to fucking die. Then he turns his head and sees Papyrus standing by the bed, staring at him, his eyes wide and blank. As Sans looks at him, the mug clutched in Papyrus's hand slips through his fingers, hits the floor, and shatters.

Another shattered mug. The kitchen. Sans's soul gone cold and heavy in his chest, a spreading numbness. He'd thought he was dying, leaving Papyrus alone, failing him one last time. His last thought before blacking out had just been _no_.

Sans clears his throat. His mouth is dry as dust but he manages to say, "Hey. I--"

Then Papyrus lurches across the distance between them and hauls Sans into his arms. It hurts; the magic holding Sans's bones together aches badly when he moves, and Papyrus is holding him way too tight for comfort like Sans might just slip through his fingers and shatter like the mug. Sans should complain. He should push Papyrus away and ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing with this soft squishy bullshit.

But he's weak. Once in his shitty life, just once, he can let himself have this.

He can feel Papyrus's shoulders shaking and the careful way he's not breathing so he doesn't sob. Sans puts his arms around Papyrus and holds him, his hand coming to rest on the back of Papyrus's neck--

\-- where there's no collar.

Of course not. What good is a collar saying someone is protecting you when they're as good as dust?

Sans presses his face against Papyrus's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Roughly, he says, "I'm sor--"

"Shut the fuck up for once in your life," Papyrus says, biting off every word. His voice is choked. "You stupid asshole. I would have helped you. If you'd told me--"

"Yeah," Sans says softly. He pets Papyrus's bare spine with his thumb, soothing. "Yeah, I know."

Another voice, flattened by too many drugs, breaks into their small little world, getting louder as its owner comes closer. "P-Papyrus, what the f-fuck, that was my f-f-f-avorite--"

Alphys stops short, but it's too late. The damage is done. Papyrus tears himself away from him so abruptly that Sans almost overbalances off the bed, suddenly bereft. Papyrus half-runs over to Alphys, who's taking in this whole fucked up tableau with very wide eyes and an open mouth, and grabs her by the shoulders, marching her over to the bed. He barks, "Check him. Now."

"Well, for starters, I'm not dead," Sans says. "Hey, Al. Long time no see."

Snapping back to reality, Alphys yanks her scanner out of her labcoat. She shoves it to Sans's chest, which is about when he finally realizes he's stripped to the waist. That makes the whole hugging incident even more awkward. The metal of the scanner is cold and he grimaces. Papyrus, looming over Alphys's shoulder with his arms crossed, bristles like he's about to snap over one little wince, and Sans says quickly, "How long have I been out?"

"Two weeks," Papyrus says, terse. His fingers drum restlessly on his arm. He doesn't take his eyes off Sans’s face, like he’s trying to burn it into his memory. He had half a month to stare all he wants, but Sans doesn’t really begrudge him. Two weeks is a long time to wait for somebody to die. It's longer than most people hold out after they fall. No wonder Papyrus looks like he might kill Alphys if she moves wrong. 

A little gentler than he means to be, Sans says, "Can I get some water or something?"

Papyrus gives him a look like he sees right through that flimsy excuse, but he stomps over to the water cooler. His movements are unusually awkward since he’s being so careful never to look away from Sans and Alphys, like she might steal him if she's not supervised.

"V-vitals are still slow b-but within normal range," Alphys says. Like always, her stutter eases off when she's concentrating. She frowns at the screen. "I don't g-get it. N-nothing changed except--"

She stops. A strange look crosses her face, one that Sans hasn't seen since they were in school together. Before Alphys started using pills to keep herself from having a nervous breakdown. Before Gaster died. Back when she could still be happy.

"Except what?" Sans asks. "I don't like ominous pauses, Al."

Alphys and Papyrus exchange a look. Looking weirdly furtive, Papyrus shoves the water at him and orders, "Drink it."

Yeah, great, Sans would never know what to do without instructions. He drinks it, spilling a little; his hands are shaking but his glower when Papyrus makes like he's going to try to help keeps him back for the moment. The water is heaven. Unfortunately, it reminds his body that hey, since he's swallowing things and everything...

The sooner they get this over with, the sooner he can put food in his face. Sans demands, "Did you do weird science shit to me again?"

"T--that o-only happened o-once," Alphys says defensively. "N-no! And there's no reason w-why it should've worked b-but--"

"I touched your soul," Papyrus says, talking right over her. He can't quite meet Sans's eyes, his body braced like he's about to take a punch. “It was so damaged I-- well, I healed it as much as I could. In case it would help.”

Oh.

A faint memory stirs in Sans's brain, so liquid and half-formed that it could just be the power of suggestion. A brief sense of not being alone in the dark. A moment of comfort. Someone else's soul beating with his own. Grief. Anger. Need. None of them his.

Papyrus had been with him.

Probably it's not an actual memory. Probably.

"It's n-not like anything else w-was working," Alphys says. "Your b-brother wouldn't l-leave the lab and he k-kept hanging around b-being pathetic! I thought m-maybe it'd be b-better if he just, um, g-got to say goodbye."

She says the last four words in such a rush that they blur together. Her expression says that she would be doubled over in guilt and anxiety if the drugs let her feel much at all. She stops like a broken machine. Then, as calmly as if she's ordering coffee, she says, "I-I'm a horrible p-person."

Papyrus glares at her, though the corners of his mouth are turned down with a rough kind of sympathy. "Now who's pathetic?" When she doesn't respond, staring into the middle distance, Papyrus sighs irritably. "I'm the one who asked to do it. Stop self-flagellating. I'm not a healer and he didn't consent. It was--"

"I don't give a shit," Sans says, exasperated. "Holy fuck, what's wrong with both of you? I was dead. What do I care if you fondle my soul a little?"

"There was no _fondling_ ," Papyrus says, sounding a little scandalized at the idea. 

(Sans loves him. Fuck, Sans loves him, like it’s burning a hole in his chest.)

"P-people have t-tried it b-before," Alphys says. "P-people have t-tried everything b-before. It d-didn't work. B-but you're alive now. You, um. M-maybe you c-came back b-because he n-needed you? It's--"

Alphys bites her lip. Sans stares evenly at her, waiting for it. When she doesn't say it, he says, "Go ahead, Al. You know you wanna."

Alphys buries her face in her hands and says, muffled, "I-it's so a-anime."

"I don't care what it was," Papyrus says. "The important part is that he's not dead. Check him over so I can take him home."

There's a subtle threat of _or else_ to the words. Papyrus isn't stupid. He knows damned well that most monsters who go into the labs don't come out, and not just because they've fallen down.

If the point of the experiments was to find a cure for falling down, the smart thing to do would be to try to replicate the results. Bring the families in to try to manipulate their person’s soul, in case it was the whole family thing that brought Sans back. Have Papyrus try to heal everyone's souls in case he's the reason why it worked. Keep Sans here and run a billion tests like a lab rat to see why he's different.

But the point has never been to find a cure. If they stop people falling down, there won't be a steady supply of monsters into the labs so Alphys can do her _real_ work. Asgore's work.

Besides, Sans is the judge. He's too valuable to break down into parts.

Alphys sighs. She sounds tired, the brief happiness of living in an anime washing out of her and leaving her empty. "Y-yeah. You d-don't want to stick around here any l-longer than you have t-to."

It doesn't take long for Alphys to do her work. She runs a couple tests, checking for any determination and his dormant magic levels, making him drag himself around the lab to see if he falls on his face, making him teleport. That time he does damn near pass out, but Papyrus catches him and Alphys doesn't seem surprised. In the meantime, Papyrus gives him some food from his inventory. Apparently he’d already swiped all the stuff in Sans’s, since he figured Sans didn’t need it anymore. A bland nutrition bar has never tasted so sweet.

Finally, Alphys takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes. She needs to take another dose; Sans can see it in the fine tremble of her hands. Still, she's almost smiling. "You're f-fine. You’ll b-be f-fine, anyway. G-get out of h-here. I've g-got real work t-to do."

Thank fuck. Sans gets off the bed, gladly taking the hoodie Papyrus silently offers. Alphys let him put on a shirt, although he'd caught her looking a little too thoroughly at his bare ribs first, but it's good to have his jacket back on. He feels smaller without it.

Sans considers, then decides to take the risk of saying, "Thanks, Al."

It's not a small thing, thanking someone. It means you owe them. It means they have a claim on you. But Alphys didn't experiment on him (probably) and she gave Papyrus a chance to say goodbye. She didn't have to do that.

Alphys gives him a small, real smile. "N-no problem. It's n-nice to, um, a-actually help s-someone f-for once, y'know?"

Unexpectedly, Papyrus says like the words are jerked out of him, "Yes. Thank you, Dr. Alphys. I owe you a debt."

Alphys blinks at him. Apparently she didn't see that coming either. "O-oh. Um. It's f-fine. C-could you j-just, um. C-c-could you--" The words stick. Her hands flutter. Papyrus waits with unexpected patience until she spits out, "S-say hi to the c-captain f-for me?

Papyrus doesn't smile, at least as far as most people would see it, but he inclines his head. "I'll tell her. Now go away, I have something to say to my brother."

"T-this is my f-fucking lab, P-papyrus," Alphys says without venom, but she goes. The automatic door slides shut behind her.

"Aw," Sans says. "You made a fwiend."

"Fuck off," Papyrus grumbles. "You're not dead. I'm inclined to be generous. I'd still kill her if she was a threat."

Like Papyrus would do that to Undyne, and not just because she’d kill him for it. (Never mind that if Undyne doesn’t stop trying to recruit Papyrus for the guard, Sans will kill the fishbitch himself.) Sans waves a hand. "She's only a threat to herself. Well, and people who fell down, but it's not like I'm gonna pull the same trick twice."

Papyrus's jaw tightens. "You'd better fucking not."

"Yeah, yeah." Sans climbs off the bed, stretching until his spine pops. He's got two weeks of stiffness to work out of his bones. "If I die, you'll kill me. I get it."

"Do you," Papyrus says flatly. 

It's clearly the kind of statement that Sans is better off ignoring, so he does. "We're gonna have to walk it. I'm pretty sure I can't take another shortcut for a while. I'm tapped out."

"I assumed so," Papyrus says. "We'll manage." He's walking just behind Sans, riding herd, which Sans would usually chew him out for but hey, he's in a forgiving mood. Every step aches, jarring the magic between his bones. Funny how he just woke up from a two week nap and all he wants to do is curl up on their couch and sleep. Maybe get a sitrep and shower first. He smells like lab.

They don't say anything on their way to the elevator. They don't have to. The silence is comfortingly familiar. But he can feel Papyrus's eyes on him and can practically hear Papyrus's thoughts ticking away. It's no real surprise that when they get to the elevator and he starts to reach for the call button, Papyrus says suddenly, "Wait."

Sans turns around to look expectantly at him. "What? You enjoying the creepy ambiance too much to leave?"

Papyrus doesn't even bother looking annoyed by the joke, all serious business. If Sans wasn't Sans, he wouldn't see Papyrus take a deep breath and brace himself before he speaks. "Put on the collar."

Sans stares at him. Papyrus stares back, a stubborn set to his jaw. Finally, Sans laughs. "And here I thought you didn't like jokes. Good one. Now let's go."

"I'm not joking," Papyrus says. 

“Buddy, you really want to be joking.”

"You can't even manage a shortcut. If you have my protection--"

"That's not how this works," Sans says. 

“You say that as if any of this is working,” Papyrus shoots back. 

Sans exhales through his teeth. "Do you wanna do this right now? Seriously?"

"Yes," Papyrus says simply.

This fucking kid. Sans scrubs a hand over his face. There's still a film of sweat from trying to teleport earlier. "Listen, I ain't gonna get pissed about you taking off the collar, but don't fucking push me."

"No. I should have pushed you months ago when I first saw you struggling," Papyrus says. "We wouldn't be in this situation to begin with."

"That's not your fucking job, Papyrus," Sans snaps. "Your job is to stay alive and do what I goddamn tell you. You think that's changed because I took a little nap?"

"Yes," Papyrus repeats, an edge to his voice. "I do."

"... Heh." Sans leans against the wall by the elevator, trying to look more like he's slouching than just trying to keep himself upright. "Well, look at you taking advantage of the situation. You actually do listen when I talk. Staging a little mutiny, huh? A little teenage rebellion? That's cute."

Again, Papyrus doesn't go for the bait. His expression is steady. Implacable. "You're not well. Be reasonable. You can't fight like this."

Fuck. There it is.

"No?" Sans asks, dangerously quiet. "You wanna bet?"

Papyrus's mouth twists in a humorless smile. He doesn't look surprised. They know each other too well.

"You think you can fight?" Papyrus asks. "Fine. At least I won't kill you when you lose, which is better than anyone else will offer you."

Two weeks in bed. Even standing up is wearing Sans out. He's weak. He should have died. He’s got no idea how long it’ll take him to recover. The damage is done as far as Papyrus taking off the collar; Sans’s protection won't mean much if people saw Papyrus walking around with his neck bare and it probably hasn't really meant much in years. There’s no denying that Papyrus has been handling his own fights for a while. It's kind of pathetic that Sans thought Papyrus wearing his collar scared anyone off since Papyrus got out of striped shirts. The dire threat of Sans with his whole five HP holding back the meanness of the world. Right. But Papyrus is a real threat. The pragmatic thing for Sans to do is to put the collar on, just until he's back on his feet.

Turns out there’s a limit to Sans’s pragmatism after all.

It's one thing to admit Papyrus doesn't need his protection. It's another thing to accept Papyrus's. His brother has been testing the waters for months, and if Sans doesn't handle this now, he's going to lose control entirely. If something happened to Papyrus, he’d--

Well, what's a little pain compared to that?

Sans pushes himself off the wall. He maybe wobbles a little. Papyrus's expression tightens, a moment of weakness, and Sans coaxes, "Look, dude, I know you don't want to do this. Just--"

Papyrus smoothly sidesteps the blaster that appears in his blindspot just before it goes off. The attack leaves a scorch mark on the wall. Sans's vision swims with a wave of fatigue but through the haze, he can see Papyrus raise one sardonic brow.

And then Sans's face down, Papyrus's weight pressing him to the floor until it's hard to breathe. Papyrus has his arm twisted behind his back, just to the point where his shoulder will go out of socket if he struggles. It hurts like hell.

"Yield," Papyrus says. He's not even out of breath.

Sans turns Papyrus's soul blue and shoves him back hard. Papyrus lets go of his arm, probably anticipating the move, but not before the sudden jerk pops the damned thing out of its socket. Sans curses over the shriek of the sole of Papyrus's boots sliding across the tile floor. The magic holding his bones together stretches painfully so his arm doesn't just hit the floor, but it's loose and dangling at his side. Sans rolls to his feet, clutching his shoulder and panting, and gives Papyrus the finger with his one good hand.

Papyrus's check hits him like a fast smack across the back of the head. Sans has always trusted Papyrus's control more than Papyrus does. His HP is only down to three points.

"Idiot," Papyrus says through his teeth. He could lunge at Sans but he only waits there until Sans shoves his arm back into his socket with a sickening wrench that makes him retch. 

One of them's an idiot, all right, and it's the one playing fair. Sans taught him better than this. He's seen Papyrus fight for real and there's none of this mercy bullshit. Papyrus isn't even taking this seriously. 

Sans reaches for his blaster again. Too slow. Papyrus turns his soul blue and tries to slam him into the wall. He’s going easy. No bone attacks, no blasters, just shoving him around--

And Sans can't fuck with his own gravity to compensate. It's like trying to turn over an engine with no gasoline, just frantic grinding as the fumes refuse to catch. Just before he hits the wall, he tries to go for a shortcut. It's a purely desperation move, a last ditch instinct. It doesn't work. 

The breath whooshes out of him as he crashes into the wall. It should hurt but he only feels a numb impact. He starts to slide down it but steady hands turn him and press his back to the wall. A check. He’s down to one HP.

Papyrus takes a knee in front of him so they can look each other in the eye. There's no triumph in his expression. He just looks tired.

The edges of Sans's vision are dim, shadows creeping in. He can hear his pulse pounding dully in his temples. There's a cold sweat on his bones and he’s gasping for air he doesn’t need. He realizes distantly that he’s on the verge of passing out. He can’t use magic like this. He’s unarmed.

"I mourned you," Papyrus says. There's naked pain in his voice that doesn't show in his expression, a vulnerability that they can't afford. It twists Sans's busted-up soul in knots. "You were dead and I grieved for you. I had chosen where to scatter your dust. I _lost_ you."

If Papyrus was the one in the bed, just an empty body that hadn't turned to dust yet, Sans wouldn't have been alive by the time Papyrus woke up. He'd have found some fight he couldn't win. Fuck, maybe he’d have tried to kill Asgore himself just to be sure. Where Papyrus goes, he goes. It's as simple and fundamental as gravity.

"And now I have you back," Papyrus says. There's wonder in it, like Sans is some gift. Some kind of miracle. "I won't lose you again. I can't. So put the fucking collar on. Don’t make me put it on for you."

In the end, it's not the pain or the exhaustion that beats Sans. It's the quiet desperation in Papyrus's eyes that says he’ll force Sans into the collar if he has to, but it’ll break something in him. Sans has broken Papyrus enough as it is.

"Okay," Sans sighs. His voice is beaten thin. His ribs ache like a motherfucker when he breathes. "You win. Lemme up."

Papyrus hesitates. He clearly doesn't trust that Sans isn't lying and won't backstab him the second he's back on his feet. Smart kid. Then he backs up, taking the support of his hands away. Sans nearly buckles without Papyrus keeping him upright and Papyrus quickly grabs him by the hoodie, but Sans manages not to fall over. Bully for him.

When Sans shifts his weight, hisses as his body registers about twenty protests at once, Papyrus studies him warily. Sans tilts his chin up, baring his neck to the one person he'd ever do that for, and demands, "Are you gonna do it or just stand there like an idiot with your dick in your hand?"

The corner of Papyrus's mouth quirks. "How I missed these wonderful conversations we have." Then he pulls the collar out of his inventory. It's such a small thing in his hands. He can't have gotten taller in two weeks but he seems to take up more space now. He demands more space now.

Papyrus's hands are very careful as he loops the collar around Sans's throat. It feels weird to be touched gently on his cervical spine; nobody's ever really had their hands there until they were trying to kill him or they had their dick down his throat. It's too vulnerable. His nerves scream and his hands shake with how bad he wants to twist away because this is wrong, this isn't how it's supposed to go, he's the one who's supposed to protect--

Papyrus closes the buckle and takes his hands away. The collar feels heavy and warm around Sans's neck, a pressure against the bone when he swallows. The way it hums faintly with protective magic doesn't surprise him, but there's something new. Laid on top of the layers on layers of his own magic there's a thread of Papyrus's, fierce and possessive. It says, _this is mine_.

"I did it when Dr. Alphys was examining you," Papyrus says. "It's not my best work. When I have more time, I'll strengthen it."

Sans touches the collar with his fingertips, tracing the line of it. Experimentally, he hooks his fingers underneath it. It's comfortable. He made sure of that before he ever put it on Papyrus. 

Papyrus watches him closely as he feels it out. There's an almost satisfied light in his eyes.

"Don't get it twisted, kid," Sans warns. "This is only temporary, understand?"

Papyrus scowls. His eyes are dark holes in the severe lines of his face. "I’ve told you not to call me that. I'm not a child."

No. No, Papyrus really isn't anymore. He hasn't been for a long time.

Sans lets go of the collar and straightens, standing on his own two feet. "Sure. Whatever you say." His grin is ironic and bitter as dust. "Boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: possessive and dysfunctional behavior, as per usual with Red and Edge; dubcon soul touching (Edge touches Red’s soul to heal it offscreen when he’s unconscious and can’t consent); discussion of Alphys using drugs to cope with her shitty, shitty job; discussion of medical experimentation on other monsters who fell; mention of suicide; Red and Edge beat the hell out of each other. (Okay, mostly Edge beats the hell out of Red, but it’s not for lack of trying.) Underfell is a lovely vacation spot.


	5. a little warm (pre-series edge and sans h/c and fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge mentions in 'a little spine' that Sans looks like shit but it's not the worse he's ever seen him. This is the story of the worst he's ever seen him. Set about two months before 'ain't this the life', before Red and Sans start fucking around.

It's supposed to be a short trip to Papyrus and Sans's house, retrieving a baking pan that Papyrus borrowed for making lasagna. After years in his own world, Edge should know by now that the simplest plans are often the ones that go awry.

There's no one to let him in. Sans is working one of his excessive number of jobs and Papyrus has gone to the beach for the day with Undyne and the human, but Papyrus gave Edge a key to his house for some Papyrus reason that Edge can't fathom. A strange gesture, considering that Edge can easily get into his house using lockpicks or Red's shortcuts, but it's probably meant to be a demonstration of trust.

(Edge hasn't returned the favor. He knows Papyrus is basically harmless, although hardly the happy idiot he lets people believe he is, and that he could come and go in Edge's house as easily as Edge could trespass in his, but... no. Not yet.)

Which is why when Edge opens the door and hears a clamor from the kitchen, his first reaction is to think of the graffiti sprayed across Sans and Papyrus's door. It's reflex to bring an attack to hand and reflex, when someone steps out of the kitchen, to turn their soul blue and shove them towards the wall.

Luckily, Sans's reflexes are similarly fast. He readjusts his gravity to compensate and only staggers a couple steps back. He doesn't even take his hands out of his pockets. Unruffled, he looks at the attack in Edge's hand and gives him the usual insouciant grin. "Hey, edgelord. What's up? I was just on my way out."

He sounds like he's been chewing gravel. His eyes are a little unfocused, undercut by dark circles that look like they were gouged into his skull, and his bones look chalky. Edge stares at him hard until the grin drops off his face, replaced by something more wary. "What? Do I have something on my face? Do you have a dog I kicked? I--"

The words cut abruptly off. Sans turns his head, covers his mouth in the crook of his arm, and coughs. It's an ugly, wracking thing that goes from concerning to outright alarming as it goes on. Automatically, Edge lets the attack dissolve to dust and starts to reach out and thump his back like he would Red, then stops and only hovers awkwardly until the fit passes.

Breathing raggedly, Sans drops his arm and sniffs. There's no sign of blood on his hoodie, at least. Completely mistaking Edge's horror, he says, "Sorry. Gross, I know."

"Are you dying?" Edge demands.

Sans blinks at him. It seems to take him a few too many seconds to follow Edge's train of thought before he laughs. "No. 'S just a cough. It happens."

"Does it?" Edge asks, alarmed.

"Yeah. Couple times of year for as long back as I can remember." Sans shrugs. "Lousy HP."

Red is more prone to catching ill than Edge is and it's worse when he's exhausted. There'd been one year in particular, just before he Fell, that a cough had lingered for months because he couldn't shake it off. Edge had gotten into the habit of checking on Red several times when he slept just to be sure he was still alive. He'd hoped that was just a function of not enough food and constant terrified dread, not something inherent to being a Sans.

Edge puts the back of his wrist against Sans's forehead. Sans tolerates it, although he seems to be on the verge of an eyeroll. Edge says accusatively, "You're burning up."

"Figured as much. My head kinda hurts."

"And yet you don't have the sense to stay home?"

"Hey, I skipped the hot dog thing. Besides, if I stayed home every time I felt like shit, I'd never leave the house," Sans says. When Edge stiffens, he seems to realize how honest that was and grins crookedly. "It's a joke, buddy. Don't worry about it."

Yes, because that will certainly reassure him. Edge crosses his arms and gives Sans a Look. It sometimes quells Red, although not always, but Sans just gives him a placid smile back. "Fine. If not for your own sake, consider the fact that you're a walking disease vector. Do you really want to pass this along to a child? An old person? My brother?"

Where self-preservation won't work, guilt often does. Sans looks uncomfortable, which is relatively impressive when he already looks like hammered shit. Then he eyes Edge's expression, gauging his resolve.

His tone almost sweet, Edge uses the most brutal weapon in his arsenal. "Would you like me to call Papyrus?"

It's the final nail in the coffin. Sans deflates with a wince. "Dirty pool, dude."

"I have more sympathy for him in this situation than you." Edge puts a hand on Sans's shoulder, turning him so he faces the couch. He can feel the heat radiating through Sans's hoodie. "Go on."

"What, I'm banned from my own bedroom?" Sans asks, although he seems more amused than offended.

"Yes, because I absolutely don't trust you not to go to work when my back is turned," Edge says. "I know how your devious mind works."

"I'm not smart enough to be devious," Sans says as he drops bonelessly onto the couch and curls up in one corner. He takes up surprisingly little space. Red tends to sprawl.

"Liar." Edge drops the quilt draped across the back of the couch (for Frisk when they stay overnight) onto Sans's head and leaves him to manage himself for a moment. When he comes back, the tea brewing on the stove, Sans hasn't moved an inch. The blanket still covers his face. Edge sighs, picks the blanket up, and shakes it out. Sans cracks one eye open and watches him.

"You don't gotta do that," Sans says. "Y'know. The whole mom routine."

"I realize that," Edge says. He doesn't say that he doesn't mind, that it's something of a novelty to do this for someone who won't tear his head off for it. He drapes the blanket over Sans, stopping short of tucking it around him. Once that's done, Edge crosses his arms and stands over him. He may be looming. "Do you need a doctor?"

Sans laughs, strangely humorless, for no reason Edge can discern. "No thanks. I'll be fine once I sleep it off. 'S usually done in a day or two anyway. Don't you got work?"

"Hm." Pressing the issue will do more harm than good. Edge sits on the other end of the couch, careful not to jostle him. "I'm staying until your brother gets home."

Sans gives him another searching look, considering whether to be difficult for the sake of it. Whatever he sees makes the fight go out of him. "Knock yourself out." Curling up tighter under the blanket, he closes his eyes. Edge can't tell if it's a sign of trust or exhausted apathy. Considering that Sans always seems a little wary around him, probably the latter.

Edge takes the opportunity to send Asgore and RG01 and RG02 a terse text, giving no details except that he'll be in late or not at all. Family matters. Then he gets up to go glare the tea into brewing faster. He stays close enough to the couch to hear the faint click of Sans's fingers on the keyboard of his cell phone. Presumably, he's texting his jobs, although knowing Sans, he may be sending knock-knock jokes to the queen again instead of anything useful.

When the tea is done, Edge pours it into a mug emblazoned with _world's best grandma_. Then he takes the mug in his hands and concentrates. Healing magic doesn't come naturally to him, a consequence of his LV, but he's had enough practice trying to keep Red and his Undyne alive that he can compensate for it. When that's finished, he begrudgingly adds several cubes of sugar.

Sans doesn't know what offering food means. Red is content to let that joke drag out, the better to mock Sans with when he realizes. If Edge simply gave him the tea, Sans wouldn't know to object. But there would be no honor in that, and Edge has precious opportunity to be honorable to begin with. No, he'll continue to try to court Sans the same painstaking, careful way he has been for months, since Sans hasn't picked up on (or is ignoring) Red's unsubtle attempts at flirting. He sets the cup and saucer on the floor beside the couch and says nothing. Just waits.

Sans glances at him, that assessing look again, and then picks up the cup and takes a sip. His eyes go wide and he coughs a little like he just took a shot. "Wow. That's, uh. Kinda intense."

"It's effective," Edge says. He stares evenly at Sans until he gets the hint and keeps drinking.

"Thanks," Sans says after a moment, his eyes fixed on the saucer as if it contains the mysteries of the universe. "Do me a favor while you're at it. If you're gonna stick around, quit hovering. It's not terminal."

When Red gets sick, he gets snappish and surly. Well, surlier than usual. Red prefers to abandon control on his own terms, and being betrayed by his own body eats at him. Sans doesn't look angry, just resigned. This is a fact of his life, one he'd probably rather people didn't notice.

Edge nods and tucks his feet up onto the couch. There's a book in his inventory, something from the library. An interesting concept, libraries. The only ones Edge had ever seen were ransacked and burnt out, a testament to an age when monsters had things to share. He's been steadily working his way through the history section, trying to discern what made their worlds so different, what small, critical decision changed their fates. Knowing the reason won't change anything, he knows, but he looks anyway.

Sans shifts his weight again as if trying and failing to get comfortable. Without looking up from the page he's reading and rereading without any of the words penetrating, Edge says, "Go the fuck to sleep."

"I can't exactly do it on command," Sans says, the hint of a grumble in his voice. He draws in a hitching, careful breath, clearly trying to stifle a cough because it would hurt too much.

Edge wonders exactly how long Sans has managed to hide this. Papyrus obviously doesn't know. Whether these illnesses happens frequently or not, Papyrus would never have left Sans alone if he knew. Papyrus worries, trying to cover it with fond irritation and failing utterly. As dysfunctional as Edge's relationship with Red is, Papyrus and Sans hardly seem better. That's a petty comfort to him.

"I could read to you if you'd like," Edge says neutrally. It's the kind of offer he can dismiss as sarcasm if Sans objects, although he's fairly sure that unlike Red, Sans won't throw furniture at him over it.

"Didn't figure you for the bedtime story type," Sans says.

"It may surprise you but I was a child at some point."

Sans laughs, risking another coughing fit, then clears his throat. "Well, fuck. Here I figured you hatched a fully-formed emo teenager. Wearing the pants and everything."

"Hatched?" Edge glances over at him, amused. "Is there something I should know about Papyrus?"

"Hatched," Sans says. The fever may be getting to him, because there's a loopiness to his grin. He taps his forehead. "Thought that was what happened to Red's skull. It was a heady experience."

This is alternately charming and obnoxious, much like Sans himself. "I'm ignoring that because you're sick. Don't abuse it. Do you want me to read to you or not?"

Sans drapes one arm over his eyes to block out the light. "Yeah. Fuck it. I can fit you into my busy schedule."

"How gracious of you," Edge says. "Shall I start from the beginning?"

"Nah. 'M probably gonna pass out anyway. Just read."

"As you like." Edge clears his throat. "And so it was that the European human archetype of the devil as a horned, goatlike figure led to the death of King Protea and therefore the beginning of the human-monster war. The tragedy--"

"Holy shit," Sans says. "You doing a little light reading?"

Edge frowns at him. "It's history. I like history."

"About wars?"

"Yes. Considering that you deliberately read Feynman's ramblings--"

"Hey now," Sans says sternly, raising his arm to give Edge a look. "Let's not say anything you'll regret."

"As far as reading material goes, this is your only option," Edge says. "May I continue?"

"Yeah, yeah." Sans drops his head back to the couch cushions with an audible thump. "So long as you do the voices."

"This is an academic book," Edge says. "There are no voices."

"Well, that's just quitter talk."

"Fine. If I come to an opportunity for ridiculous voices, I'll do some to humor you," Edge says. "Because you are an actual child. Does that satisfy you?"

Sans grins and gives him a fingergun. His eyes are still covered so he's aiming a couple feet to the left. If his spatial awareness is off by that much, it's a goddamn good thing he didn't try to take a shortcut. "You're the best, dude."

It's an easy compliment, utterly meaningless, but Edge is warmed by it anyway. He clears his throat and redirects his attention back to the book. "The tragedy began when King Protea, who was quite fond of children, went to the village of..."

He reads for a long while with occasional interjections from the peanut gallery of one. The story is the same one Edge learned about in school at home, the lesson being that humans are merciless. The part of the fable where this meant monsters can have no mercy in return is strangely absent. The author tells the history as if it was some sort of inevitable tragedy in which the humans were ultimately blameless, just poor sadly misguided creatures. It's amazing how it manages to be both naive and patronizing at once.

But when he pauses a moment to make a note of the author's name so he can avoid them from now on, Sans doesn't pipe up with his bullshit. He's breathing steadily, the faint buzzing almost-snore Edge only hears when Red is really out. Not feigning it to put people off their guard, not the shallow doze where he could be awake and dodging in an instant, but genuine sleep. His face is still half-covered by his arm but what Edge can see of it has a little better color, as if the fever has broken for the moment.

Edge allows himself a private moment to smile. Then he goes back to his reading, being careful as he turns the pages not to make too much noise.

He never does end up getting to work, but it's a sacrifice he's willing to make.


	6. my own blood (gaster lives au)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one-shot AU where Gaster is still alive at the time of 'ain't this the life', written based on a prompt by sprintprincess. Thanks for the prompt!
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes for general nastiness.

It takes several months for Edge to find out this Gaster still lives. 

He doesn't know their own Gaster well; they met a few times in passing when Red was in school and during Red's brief tenure at the labs, before Gaster died and Red got them both out of the city as fast as possible. The man had been cold and unpleasant, a cruel glitter in his eyes for the few seconds it took him to decide that Edge wasn't interesting enough to bother with. Edge would've normally been insulted, but even at the height of his arrogant teenage years, it'd been something of a relief to be dismissed. He didn't like the way Gaster looked at him.

Many things in this world are softer. This version of Papyrus is nothing like him aside from an ability to fight and a fierce love for his brother. This Asgore is so far from Edge's own that sometimes Edge forgets that they're the same person and this king is not some idiot sibling kept out of the public eye to avoid disgracing the family. But Gaster... Gaster is the same.

Mostly.

Gaster finally shows his face at one of the many supposedly informal events that Frisk, as ambassador, is forced to attend. Asgore is trying to make the monsters seem less threatening, as if they're just like humans, as if that will somehow make the humans less likely to kill them all when humans seem perfectly happy to kill each other all the time. It's a photo opportunity, but everyone in Frisk's entourage attends. Papyrus seems to be successfully charming humans through sheer force of will. The queen, terror of the war, exchanges brownie recipes. Sans wanders around with his hands in his pockets, doing that thing he does where he convinces people to trust him despite looking like he might start playing three card monty with a loaded deck at any moment.

"Welp," Red says, slouching against the wall beside Edge. "This sucks."

"Then why are you still here?" Edge demands, not taking his eyes off Frisk. One of the humans is standing too close to them for his comfort, but Undyne is looming at Frisk's elbow and smiling with as many teeth as a skeleton so he's not overly concerned.

"Same reason you are, I guess," Red says. When Edge glances at him, Red is watching Frisk with hooded eyes. "Plus I figure I can try to fuck Sans in the bathroom if I get really bored."

"That's disgusting."

"Yep," Red agrees happily. "Figured I'd see what the fuss is about."

Out of the corner of his eye, Edge sees motion. Someone is sweeping towards them, cutting through the crowd like a shark through water. No one is getting shouldered aside, exactly; they step aside without even seeming to notice it.

"Holy shit," Red says, alarmed enough by the appearance of a ghost to straighten out of his slouch.

This Gaster looks almost exactly as Edge remembers him, the cracked socket and the firm, unsmiling line of his mouth. His eyes are bright and steady as he strides towards them. He stops too close, peering at Edge's face and then at Red's, and signs with spidery hands, _What is your point of divergence?_

The question is clearly directed at Red, imperious, as if Red is some kind of child. Edge raises a brow and opens his mouth to ask who the fuck he thinks he is.

"Dr. Gaster," Sans says, suddenly and smoothly at Gaster's elbow. His easy smile is tight and ill-fitting. "This is, uh, Sans and Papyrus, but they go by Edge and Red. Guys, this is Dr. Gaster. Anyway, there's this human here from Stanford who wants to talk to you about--"

 _I know who they are. Introductions are unnecessary,_ Gaster says dismissively. He doesn't even glance at Sans, his eyes on Red. _Surely you have some theories. You've had six months to think of them. Why has your society descended into such savagery?_

Red cocks his head, smiling. It's the way he smiles before a bar fight breaks out. "Maybe some motherfucker kept asking annoying questions."

"Okay," Sans says, shifting so he's in Gaster's line of sight. There's an unfamiliar note in his voice that wasn't there even when Edge had a weapon in his face. "Listen. I get that you're real interested, but they don't know you and--"

 _Grammar,_ Gaster says, managing to snap despite speaking in hands. _How often must I tell you?_

The thing about Sans is that he may be less harsh than Red, but he pushes back. With a smile, with a joke, by pointedly ignoring what's been said like he’s not going to deign to reply, or by simply turning on his heel and walking away.

Sans meets Edge's eyes for a fleeting second, then averts them to the floor. "Yes, doctor."

Edge exchanges a look with Red. Then he takes half a step closer to Gaster, getting a little too close.

"Boy," Red says. His Hotland accent is thick and pointed. "I know we're a bunch of savages but I hafta say you don't seem real different from our version, _doctor_."

Gaster looks at him as if a lab rat began to speak, more fascinated than offended, thinking of dissection. Edge bristles, a prickle of magic rising in his hands.

"The king was looking for you," Sans cuts in before Gaster can raise his hands. "Maybe save the interrogation for later."

Gaster glances down at him, clearly displeased. Sans nods at Asgore, who is indeed headed in their direction, towering over the crowd. The look of fond resignation sits uneasily on Gaster's face.

 _Thank you, Sans,_ Gaster says. _You can be so helpful when you want to be. How is your brother these days?_

A harmless non sequitur. If Edge wasn't looking so closely, he wouldn't see Sans flinch. Normally Papyrus (and how cool he is) is one of Sans’s favorite topics to ramble about, whether the person necessarily wanted to know or not. Sans just says a terse, "He's fine. Busy."

 _He always did have more energy than you. Perhaps I'll have a word with him before I go._ Sans’s jaw tightens. Gaster glances at Edge and blinks, gently puzzled, at whatever expression is on Edge's face. _We'll speak further on this._

"Oh, I'm really looking forward to it," Red says.

Gaster walks away. Before he's even out of earshot, Red demands of Sans, who is still staring into the middle distance, "What the fuck was that?"

"What?" Sans blinks, coming back to some kind of life. Edge realizes belatedly that Sans wasn't even breathing. His smile is perturbingly casual. "Oh, yeah. Sorry about that."

"Yes, doctor?" Red echoes. "What the hell, Sans?"

Sans shrugs tiredly. "You know how he is."

"Do you?" Edge asks Red. He never saw Gaster like that with Red. More to the point, he never saw Red like that with Gaster.

"No," Red says firmly. "It ain't like that where we're from."

"Interesting," Sans says. Strangely, his eyes flick to Red's right hand and then away. "Anyway, I gotta go--"

Red catches hold of the front of his hoodie and uses it to drag Sans a couple steps away from the center of the party. Sans doesn't dig his heels in, though he glances over his shoulder in the direction where Gaster went. He looks resigned. Edge follows them. Undyne has control of the situation for a few moments.

"Does he have something on you?" Red asks, pitching his voice quieter so as not to carry.

"Yeah, a couple feet of height and a doctorate," Sans says. 

"Cute," Red says. "I meant more along the lines of blackmail."

"That’s a little paranoid," Sans says. "He taught me a lot. I owe him for that. Why are you freaking out?"

"Gee, maybe because that comment about talking to Papyrus sounded like a fucking threat?" Red says.

"It wasn't," Sans says. When Red just looks at him, he grimaces and looks away, back towards where Gaster is signing to Asgore. "Look, I know he's an asshole but I'll keep him away from you guys. He'll lose interest and disappear in his lab for another year or so. It's fine."

"So he's allowed to talk to you like that but not anybody else," Red says.

"I'm not gonna scatter his dust behind a dumpster if he pisses me off, so yeah, basically," Sans snaps. Edge recognizes the tactic from arguments with Red: when cornered, go for the low blow.

Unfortunately for Sans, Red doesn't feel guilty about his LV. He reserves that for other things. Red just gives him a smile that would look amused if you didn't know him. "True. You got all the morals in this relationship."

"Fuck, don't call it a relationship," Sans says, appalled.

"Fuckbuddyship." Red keeps that easy smile. "Lucky for you, you got me around to do your dirty work."

"What, you'll murder him?" Sans asks. 

Red shrugs. “Murder is maybe a little extreme. Some threatening and an asskicking would probably do it. Unless there’s something I don’t know?”

Sans gives an irritated hiss. This conversation has involved more visible emotion than he usually shows in a week. He doesn't let himself look angry, only coldly amused at worst, but he looks it now. "I don't need you or Edge to handle my goddamn problems for me."

Red studies him, his head tilted to one side. Then he lets go of Sans's hoodie. "Fair enough. But if he fucks with Frisk or gets in my face again, then it'll be _my_ goddamn problem. Capiche?"

"Yeah," Sans says. He glances at Edge. "That goes for you too."

Edge says mildly, "It must be quite a debt you think you owe him."

Sans exhales. He looks exhausted, suddenly, as if the weight of the night has fallen on him all at once. "It is."

"How long do you intend to keep paying it?" Edge asks.

Sans's expression sets into stubborn lines that remind Edge more of Red than Sans himself. "As long as it takes. Now drop it."

Sans is usually careful with Edge, though less coddlingly careful than he is with Papyrus. Even when he's annoyed, he prefers to be agreeable to Edge's face and then leave to do whatever he wants anyway. But 'drop it' isn't a request; it's a warning.

There’s something going on here beyond a little intimidation. Sans is intimidated by Edge but he’s afraid of Gaster. Seeing as Sans has either no common sense or the same nihilistic, self-destructive streak as Red, that means Gaster is a threat. Edge just doesn’t know what kind. Yet.

"As you like," Edge says. "I'll let him live unless he proves to be a problem."

Sans stares at him, then sighs and squeezes the top of his nasal ridge. "So glad you said that. Just a huge weight off my mind."

"When you're done getting Papyrus out of the line of fire, you wanna introduce me to the wonderful world of fucking in a bathroom stall?" Red asks.

"How about you go fuck yourself?" Sans says, and walks away.

“That’s what I was trying to do,” Red calls after him. Sans doesn’t turn around. Red and Edge watch him go. Without turning his head, Red says, "You mind keeping an eye on things while I go try to get some info from Papyrus?"

Edge brushes his fingers across the back of Red's neck, running them along the collar. Their relationship is no less taboo here than at home without the benefits of convincing people that they're too crazy to fuck with. They're limited to small gestures in public; the touch of a finger, a lingering look. "Of course. You're better suited to it than I am."

Across the room, Sans is having a quiet word with his brother, or as quiet a word as any conversation with Papyrus can have. Papyrus glances from Sans to Gaster, slightly wide-eyed, then to Frisk, and then right at Edge. Edge gives him a nod. Yes, he's well aware of the situation. Papyrus relaxes a little and returns his attention to Sans.

There's a brief shift in air pressure beside him. Edge looks down to find his brother gone, probably lying in wait by the door. It doesn't take long for Sans to convince Papyrus to head in that direction. Edge wonders what distraction Sans decided to use and whether he thinks Papyrus genuinely believes it. For such a perceptive monster, Sans has the occasional blind spot you could drive a truck through.

With a brief stop to pat Frisk on the head, Papyrus leaves the party. Sans keeps his grin plastered on until Papyrus is gone. Then he deflates, rubbing tiredly at his face, and goes to a corner near where Gaster is conversing with the king. It would be easy to miss that he's put himself between Gaster and Frisk, presenting himself as a more tempting target, which he would probably deny doing to his dying day. Their eyes meet briefly before Sans narrows them in silent warning.

Edge’s instincts prickle at the idea of leaving a potential threat alive and unharmed. Better to at least terrify them into compliance. But he doesn’t have enough information to act, not until Red reports back. So he watches. He waits. He’s always been an excellent guard.

***

The 'show up behind someone and scare them shitless' trick doesn't work on Papyrus. Before Red can say anything, Papyrus says without turning his head, "Hello! I'm pretending to be distracted by something shiny like an actual child. Would you like to join me?"

Red chuckles and joins Papyrus, sitting on the back bumper of Papyrus's sweet-ass car. "Can't sneak anything past you, huh."

"Perhaps you can share that revelation with my brother," Papyrus says sourly. His attention is across the parking lot, focused on the front door of the embassy.

"I don't think that'd help," Red says. Papyrus gives a resigned sigh. "What shitty excuse for a distraction did he give you?"

"That there was a moldsmal on my car," Papyrus says. "It's very difficult to get the slime off one's windshield."

"I guess so," Red agrees. He looks at the side of Papyrus's face, taking in the way he's carefully not making eye contact. "I'd say you could go back but I think maybe you don't wanna be in there right now. Am I wrong?"

"Of course I want to be in there!" Papyrus says. "I'm not neglecting my very important duties. It's just that I'm making sure the hypothetical moldsmal doesn't come back."

"I met Gaster," Red says. 

Papyrus winces. "Oh."

"Yeah," Red says. "He was kind of an asshole in our universe too."

"He's not," Papyrus says too quickly. The words come out as one long blur, practiced, like a mantra. "He's just-- he's very busy. He's done a lot of good things. Important science things."

"Which doesn't make him not an asshole," Red says.

Papyrus ducks his head. Quieter than he usually is, he says, "Important people don't always have to be kind."

There's a whole story here that Red sees the edges of, and he doesn't like it much. He doesn't like the slight hunch of Papyrus's shoulders like he's expecting to be hit.

"He's not just like that with Sans, is he," Red says. "That why you're out here."

"No?" Papyrus says. Apparently Sans got all the talent for lying in their family. His hands tangle together, and he starts to wring them slowly.

Red thinks maybe he should've held off on saying murder was a little extreme. There's a slow coil of anger tightening around his soul. It's one thing when it's Sans, although Red doesn't like how easily Sans turned throat when Gaster pushed him, but somebody being cruel to Papyrus is just fucking wrong. "He shouldn't talk to you like that."

"It's fine," Papyrus says with a kind of brittle cheer. "He's not so bad when you get to know him. We spent a lot of time together and the trauma was rather minimal, I think!"

Red resists the urge to facepalm. "Why'd you spend a lot of time with him? Pretty sure my bro only met Gaster two or three times the whole time I worked with him."

That makes Papyrus look at him, puzzled. "You didn't live with him?"

Interesting. That could explain what Sans thinks he owes him. "Nope, we didn't. Lived on the street, mostly. We got by."

"We did that too for a while," Papyrus says, weirdly cheerful to find that they have being homeless in common. "Then Dr. Gaster said that we could stay with him so long as we helped him with his sciency things."

"Huh. I didn't know you were into science, dude."

"Oh, I'm not," Papyrus says. "There's too much funny smells and ramen and lasers involved in science. I prefer engineering."

"So how'd you help him with the experiments? Were you, what, sweeping and stuff instead?" Red asks. "Designing machines?"

An expression crosses Papyrus's face that Red has never seen before. Fear. "Not really. Um, I don't want to talk about that? It's very boring."

Red sits back a little to get a better look at him. "Really? Sounds like interesting stuff to me."

"Yes, well, you're a nerd," Papyrus says.

Nerd is probably the nicest insult anyone's ever called Red. He likes it, which sits uneasily with how much he doesn’t like that look on Papyrus’s face. "Yep. So help a nerd out. What were you doing in these experiments?"

"I'm not supposed to tell," Papyrus says. There's something hauntingly childlike in the way he says it, like it's something he's been saying a very long time. Maybe he hears that in his own voice because he clears his throat and smiles harder. "It's classified."

Helping with experiments.

Red thinks of his own Gaster and the work he did for Asgore. The condemned prisoners, the parts of the lab he and Alphys avoided. The plans for machines left on Gaster’s desk. He thinks of the way Sans dropped his eyes and said 'yes, doctor'. The way Sans looked at Red's right hand just for a second, like he was looking for something. The way Papyrus looks hunted right now, glancing around as if someone might overhear, and his very careful answers.

And oh, is Red fucking angry.

"It's okay, Paps," Red says. The nickname rolls off his tongue, like he would soothe Edge when he was much younger and trying to scrub the blood off his hands. "You don’t have to tell me. I get it."

Papyrus looks relieved. "Good. Loose lips sink ships, even if we have neither of those things."

Red pats his shoulder. "Yeah. I'm gonna head back inside and check on our bros, okay? Gotta keep 'em out of trouble."

"Oh. Yes." Papyrus's mouth draws down at the corners, fretful. "Do you think I should come too?"

"Nah, man," Red says. "I got this."

***

Gaster leaves. As soon as he disappears out the front door and gets into his car without pausing to hassle Papyrus, Sans can breathe easy for the first time in an hour. His hands start to shake with belated adrenaline, like he only barely sidestepped an attack. He keeps them shoved safely in his pockets.

That wasn't so bad. Edge managed to ride herd on Frisk and keep them from trying to introduce themselves to Gaster. Gaster didn't get anywhere near Papyrus. Fairly pleasant for him, actually. No screaming at all.

(Gaster had watched him the whole time. He didn't come near him again, but every word he exchanged with Asgore or a scowling Toriel made Sans's nerves rattle. Had interrupting him, that one tiny thing, been the last straw? Who knows how Gaster thinks?)

It's over. Gaster's gone back to his labs underground. Maybe Red and Edge won't be interesting enough to drag him back.

Sans is tired like he always is after Gaster, like he teleported too many times in a row and burned himself out. He needs a cigarette. He needs to get out of this party. He needs--

A hand settles on his hip. Sans's fried nerves can't handle one more jolt; suddenly he and whoever's touching him are elsewhere, in the alley behind Grillby's. Sans whips around to glare at Red.

"Hey, sweetheart," Red says. His eyelights shine strangely in the near dark. "You're right, that party was getting boring anyway."

"Ugh." Sans rubs tiredly at his brow. Red’s grin rubs every raw nerve he has, like petting a cat’s fur in the wrong direction. "What do you want?"

"Oh, a lot of things," Red says. "I'm greedy. How about you, Sansy? Can I help you out with anything?"

"Stop startling the hell out of me.”

"Nah." Red moves a little closer to Sans. Sans's nerves prickle, caught between objecting that Red is too close for his current lousy mood and not nearly close enough. When Red reaches out and takes his wrist, he has a brief flare of deja vu. Another alley, another night, Red holding his wrist as he said _I can get you off_. His body gives an involuntary pulse and so he's a little late resisting when Red brings his hand up to study it. By the time he jerks his arm free, it's over.

"What happened to your finger?" Red asks. There's something dangerous written in the angle of his grin.

Sans rubs his wrist. "I dunno what you're talking about, buddy. It's always been like that."

It's a blatant lie. He expects Red to tell him so. Instead, dead serious, Red says, "It's a real simple question."

Sans shoves his hands back in his pocket. It's way too late to hide but he doesn't know what else to do. "Look, I don't know what you think is going on here but--"

"He experimented on you both, right?" Red asks calmly.

Fuck. Fuck, goddamn it, goddamn Red's fucking _prying_. He must've talked to Papyrus. That was why he disappeared from the party for a couple minutes. Like he has the right to-- Papyrus didn't tell, he wouldn't have, Red is guessing, he--

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sans can feel his pulse in his temples and there's the plastic taste of panic in his mouth. "Drop it."

"The thing I can't figure out is why it didn't kill you," Red says. He nods at Sans's right pocket where his hand is safely buried. "A break like that has gotta do more than one HP damage. It must've been someone with a lot of control. A lot of good intent."

"Stop," Sans says sharply. "Just stop fucking talking."

"You made Papyrus do it," Red says. "You couldn't deal with him being the one who got hurt so you made him hurt you."

There's no particular judgment in Red's voice. Sans flinches like a kicked dog. He turns away to stare at the wall, giving Red his back. He deserves every second of this but he can't give Red his expression too. He can't.

A long minute ticks by. Then Red moves closer, scuffing his boots on the ground so Sans hears him coming. Red doesn't lay hands on him, but Sans can nearly feel Red's shadow on his back. Red murmurs in his ear, coaxing and intimate as if they're in bed, "Let me kill him."

"Well, that's surprisingly polite of you," Sans says. His voice sounds wrong to his own ears. "Did you need an engraved invitation when you murdered everybody else?"

They could fight. Sans _wants_ to fight, to take vicious potshots at each other to get this seething poison out of his head. Maybe if he makes it too much trouble, Red'll give up.

Red's supposed to take the bait. Instead he says, quiet and even, "You don't gotta get dust on your hands. Lemme do this for you. I want to."

What's a little more LV to Red? What's one more death? The simplest solution. Red would enjoy it; Sans can hear the barely suppressed fury in his voice. If he asked, Red would tell him all about it when he was done.

Isn't he supposed to be the judge? Gaster is guilty. He knows. Fuck, does he know.

But.

"That's not what Papyrus wants," Sans says.

Sans knows his brother. He knows himself. It wasn't just weakness and a promise that stayed Sans's hand all those timelines that Papyrus died. Papyrus would never want someone to avenge him. He would want to give the bastard a chance to be _better_. Dust has a pretty limited capacity for redemption.

(It's such a convenient excuse.)

Red exhales hard enough that Sans can feel it on the back of his neck, and Sans can hear the anger in it. "Then you pick up your fucking phone and you call Asgore right the fuck now. You're the judge. If you tell him what that fucker did--"

"I volunteered," Sans says tiredly. The old recitation. "We could've left at any time. Hell, even after we moved out, I kept coming back. I worked with him for years."

"How old were you?"

"That doesn't matter."

"For fuck's sake, Sans!" Red snaps, a sudden jolt of noise that makes Sans jump. "Yes, it fucking matters. Were you still in striped shirts?"

Sans turns around. Red wasn't expecting that, apparently; it throws him for a second, long enough for Sans for grab him by the front of his hoodie and drag them both through a shortcut to Red's room. He pushes Red back against a wall (Red puts up surprisingly little resistance) and smiles up at him. Hard as he tries, there's a desperate strain in his voice. He's better than this. He has to be better than this. "Hey. This is a kinda boring conversation. How about we do something else?"

"Sans," Red says. There isn't even a trace of humor in his expression. It's hilarious how much he sounds like Edge when he's all serious. This whole situation is hilarious. "Dude, you're not gonna fuck your way out of--"

"I dunno," Sans says. "I'm really good at it."

Before he can go to his knees, Red grabs onto his elbow. Almost gently, he says, "No, sweetheart."

"You always--"

"No," Red repeats, holding his eyes. "I'm telling you no."

Sans thinks of community theater. It clears his head like a slap. Red doesn't look afraid of him but he backs the hell up, horrified with himself. He can't get too far with Red holding onto his arm. "Okay. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Red says. He doesn't let go. "You apologize too damn much, you know that?"

"Heh." Sans tugs at his arm without much hope. No dice. "I, uh, really don't want to talk about this. No point digging up old bullshit, y'know?"

"It doesn't look much like old bullshit to me," Red says. "The only one allowed to fuck with your head is me."

"We could have left," Sans says again, like repetition will help.

"And starved," Red says.

"I don't know," Sans says. "We'd have probably been fine. We'd have--"

They'd been starving when Gaster found them. It'd been winter. The magic holding Papyrus together had been pale and anemic. Hunger had become a gnawing pain and Sans’s mind didn't work right, and he knew they were coming near a point where he'd be too useless to scrounge for food anymore. Gaster had been like a miracle. A last chance.

"Listen," Red says. "I sucked cock for food. I let Edge rack up LV. You think I'm gonna judge you?"

"Why not?" Sans asks. "I judged you plenty."

One corner of Red's grin tilts up. "Yeah, well, you're an asshole."

Despite himself, Sans laughs. It sounds rusty. "You have no idea."

"Please. You're not that slick. I know exactly what kind of an asshole you are. It ain't some shocking revelation," Red says. "If I let go of your arm, you gonna bolt?"

Sans sighs, rubbing tiredly at his face. "You know where I live."

"I do."

"You're not gonna let this go."

"Nope."

"Yeah." Sans exhales. "It's fine. I don't have anywhere to go anyway."

Red lets him go. Sans backs up further, towards the window, and digs in his pocket for a lighter. He needs a cigarette if they're going to do this. He needs a _drink_ but Red probably knows exactly how blackout depressed that'll make him. He's not a happy drunk.

"Little kids is pushing it," Sans says. He shoves the window open and sits on the sill, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. "Pap was a kid but I was almost out of striped shirts when he showed up."

"Twelve," Red says. "A whole year older than Frisk. No, that sounds perfectly fucking ethical. What, did he make Papyrus sign informed consent forms in crayon?"

"He didn't bring Pap into it until he was older," Sans says. He's a shitty brother but he managed that much, at least. "A couple aptitude tests, some magic training, some puzzles and traps, but nothing too--"

Risky. Painful. Horrible. Nothing like what came later. Sans chews on each of those words but can't make himself say them. It's different to hear them out loud with Red here, so fucking angry on their behalf, so ready to murder someone to fix it. 

He finally gets the cigarette lit. His hands are trembling.

"Okay," Red says. "So all he had to do back then was watch Gaster hurt you. That's fine, then. I'm sure that was great for him."

"Fuck you," Sans says. He can't even work up a good, clean anger. "You would've made the same call."

"Yeah, I would've," Red says. "At least until Edge hit me upside the head with the clue bat."

Sans gives a humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, he got older. Went to Gaster behind my back and said he was ready. That he wanted to volunteer. Maddest I've ever been at him." 

They'd fought. Papyrus had cried. That'd been what broke him, finally, that Papyrus had cried and asked what he did wrong, why Sans didn't believe in him, what kind of person Sans thought he was to watch this over and over without helping. If Sans hated him. If Sans remembered that he’d promised he would never make Papyrus hurt him again. And Sans had just... given up. He always did.

Gaster had had experiments ready. He'd been planning a long time for the day he got a more durable subject. Papyrus got laser traps that burned, puzzles strung with razor wire, broken bones, fight training that went on until even he was exhausted. Sans got the marrow samples and the feeding tube, the drug regimens, the drill, the needles. They had each other. They didn't starve.

Sans's HP never permanently went up. Papyrus never became the perfect soldier. Gaster failed. There is a bitter comfort in that. Eventually, Sans was more useful in the lab as an assistant than a subject and Gaster just... stopped. As if Sans could've made it stop years ago if he'd just been better. Smarter.

Red watches him through half-lidded eyes. Finally says, "Did he fuck you?"

Trust Red to approach a subject delicately. "He didn't even touch us if he didn't have to. I offered once. It was fucked up, but I thought maybe..." Sans laughs, remembering the naked disgust on Gaster's face, like Sans was still a stupid kid crying as the needle bore through his hip to the marrow. "He shot me down. Said a lot of stuff about my unresolved daddy issues. I kinda tuned him out at that point."

Red studies him, seeing if he's full of shit, and relaxes a little. "You think he tried anything with Papyrus?"

"If I thought that, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Sans says. "Gaster would be dead by now."

"Good," Red says, and it's hard to tell whether he's talking about Gaster not fucking them or about Sans's willingness to murder somebody. "So hey, you're a smart guy."

Sans snorts. "Can I quote you on that and hold it over your head forever?"

"Not that you've ever acted like it. You don't need that fucker anymore. That's why the jobs, right? Gotta make sure you never gotta choose between starving and Gaster again."

Sans exhales smoke out the window. "What are you, my shrink?"

"Nah. I ain't into that kinda roleplay." When Sans snorts, Red says, "So you're out of there. You know it was fucked up whether you 'volunteered'," Red breaks out actual fingerquotes, "or not. What's keeping you from telling somebody what he did?"

Sans taps the ash off his cigarette. "You know Papyrus. He just wants to forget it ever happened. He doesn't want anybody to look at him differently."

"I can buy that," Red says. So kind of him. "But there's something else. I can see it on your face. So I'm gonna ask again: what does Gaster have on you?"

That secret's been locked behind his teeth for a long time. Six years. He thought Red knew, when he said that he hadn't fucked around since Gaster. He thought Red _understood_.

"We gonna just sit here like a couple of assholes?" Red asks after a while. "Because I got all night."

Fuck. Sans takes an unnecessarily hard drag, letting the smoke trickle out his nasal aperture and his eyesockets. It burns like tears. Then he says, "Is your Gaster dead?"

"Yeah," Red says. "Idiot fell into the Core. I told him to put up fucking safety rails."

"Nice to know that bit of stupidity is universal." Sans glances out the window. The streets are empty, the lights of the distant and cold as stars. He thinks he sees Edge's cat nosing through garbage in the alley. "He almost fell into the Core. Pap taught him gravity magic. He caught himself. We both knew I was gonna let him drop. A secret for a secret, he said."

There. The whole ugly story. It's easier to tell than he thought. No death threats, no grand conspiracy. Just blackmail. It must seem so pathetically simple to Red.

"Yeah, fuck that guy," Red says. "He's got more to lose than you do."

"Not if one of the things I lose is Papyrus."

His brother has forgiven him a lot. If he found out Sans almost let Gaster die, he'd probably say he forgives him for that too. But the knowledge of the kind of person Sans really is would be there forever, a wall between them. How many times can Sans betray Papyrus's trust in him before it breaks?

"That," Red says, "is officially the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I take back that thing about you being smart."

"Too late," Sans says.

"Fuck you." Red pushes himself up off the wall and comes over, plucking the cigarette out of Sans's fingers. He smokes angrily for a minute before he says, "He’d forgive you for anything. He'd forgive you if you let _him_ drop. He loves you. You're his brother."

"Blood isn't everything."

"Fuck, fine, you're his friend," Red says. "One of his best fucking friends. I'm saying don't be an idiot."

"So he'll just keep letting me hurt him over and over?" Sans asks. "That's not better. That's actually worse."

"Did you push Gaster?" Red asks.

Sans coughs out a laugh. "No, but--"

"Yeah," Red says. "So I'd need the exact numbers to calculate terminal velocity--"

"Red--"

"-- but from what I remember about that drop from the catwalk to the Core, it'd only take seconds." Red shrugs. "You had a bad couple seconds. You made-- well, I wouldn't say it was a bad call, personally, because I'd have shoved that fucker off the catwalk myself. But you've been torturing yourself six years over what happened in less than five seconds. That's fucked up."

"I can think pretty fast, it turns out," Sans says. "I _decided_ to let him die. It wasn't fucking trauma or shock or impulse or whatever you think it is that stopped me from helping him. I made a choice."

"Maybe," Red says. "But Papyrus believes the best of people, doesn't he? So if he finds out you let Gaster fall, he's gonna think it was shock. You gonna tell him different? Fuck knows it's not like you have a problem lying to him."

Low blow. Sans winces and looks away. "He'll see through that."

It's only after he says it that he realizes it sounds like it's a thing that is going to happen. Not some hypothetical but a consequence of what he's going to do. He snatches the cigarette back from Red. "Fuck off. I told you, Papyrus doesn't want anyone to know. It didn't just happen to me."

"Have you asked him since Frisk showed up?" Red asks. Sans doesn't think he winces but one corner of Red's mouth quirks bitterly. "You know, the kid? The one who pokes their nose into everything? The one who tries to be friends with everyone even when it's a really fucking terrible idea? That kid?"

"Oh, the one who's the king and queen's kid?" Sans shoots back. "The one with reset powers who occasionally kills everyone? They'll be fine."

"Yeah," Red says. His eyes are bright and relentlessly burning. "The one you promised you'd protect."

"I did such a banner job of it, too," Sans says. "They only died a few dozen times. At least. Probably hundreds. I'm the best babysitter ever."

"My version got killed by Undyne and didn't come back," Red says. "We both fucked that up. We can do better."

"There's no 'we' here," Sans says. "You're not the one who's gonna have to say he--"

He cuts himself off. Pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and mashes it out viciously on the metal part of the sill. "Are we done here, officer? Can I go now?"

"I'm done asking questions," Red says. "It's up to you whether you want to stick around. Figure you could use some company."

Despite everything, sick gratitude twists in Sans's chest. He swallows against it. His throat burns. Evenly, he says, "You're going to tell Edge.”

"Yeah," Red says simply. No apology in it. "I'm gonna tell him."

"Suppose I can't talk you out of it."

"Gaster's a threat," Red says. "To the kid, if nothing else."

"I told you--"

"He needs to know," Red says, as final as a closing door.

Sans hisses out a breath through his teeth, looking away. His knuckles ache from how tight he's holding onto the sill, like it's the only thing keeping him tethered.

"You're a judge," Sans says bitterly. "How about you go tell Asgore while you're at it? Fuck, throw Tori in there. Undyne and Alphys too. We'll just have a big fucking barbeque and a banner."

"Sure, I can do that," Red says, neutral as anything. "If that'd make it easier for you."

Sans lets out a laugh that skates too close to being something else. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands. His head hurts, a dull stuffed-up pain like he's been crying, but his face is dry. He says into his hands, "I'll talk to Pap about it."

"Okay," Red says.

"He'll probably say the same thing he always does. I'm just doing it to shut you up."

"Okay," Red says again.

"Fuck you for making me talk about this."

"Yeah, I know," Red says. "You wanna talk about my shitty childhood trauma now? I'll cry about it and everything."

When Sans laughs that time, it bears more resemblance to a real one. He lifts his head and grins at Red. It only wobbles a little. "Pass. How about we do literally anything else?"

Red cocks his head, studying him. Then he says, "You wanna smoke some weed and watch Carl Sagan?"

It's normal. It's so fucking normal, as if Red didn't just lance his ugliest secrets and refuse to even judge him for it, and Sans has never wanted anything so desperately in his life.

"Yeah," Sans says. His voice sounds raw. "I do."

"Okay." Red leans over and presses a kiss to Sans's mouth. His grin is crooked but not unkind. "Let's go."

***

The first thing Red says is, "Don't kill him."

There's a faint background murmur on Red's end of the call. He's speaking softly, as if not to wake someone, but Edge can hear the cold rage in every syllable.

Edge leans against his car. The entrance to the underground stands out against Mt. Ebott like a broken tooth. Watching the distant shape of a man in a white coat disappear into the mountain, he says, "Tell me."

Red does.

Edge listens. He is quiet. There's nothing to say. When Red falls into silence, Edge says, "Would you like to join me?"

Red laughs, a pitch black sound. "Yeah, but it's probably better if I don't. You know how I get." A pause. Then, sounding eerily normal, he says, "Besides, Sagan's on."

Yes, Edge knows exactly how he gets. It's probably better that he handle it himself. He says, "Crack a fucking window if you're going to smoke in the living room, you heathen."

"Yeah, yeah," Red says, "I did."

He didn't. Edge can hear it in his voice. He sighs. "I'll be home soon."

"Take your time," Red says, and Edge can hear the viciousness of his grin.

Edge disconnects the call, tucks the phone into his inventory, and starts the climb.

It's strange to be back underground. Almost nostalgic. The air is stale, but he can't taste dust in it. He traces Gaster's steps through a castle that's a bright mirror of the one he's served and fought and bled in. The differences should be fascinating but it doesn't much hold his interest tonight.

He reaches the Lab. He steps inside. Everything else has an air of gentle neglect but the Lab hums with electric life. Its corridors smell faintly of dog. He wonders which of these rooms Sans and Papyrus have bled in, which of the small sad beds they earned with their compliance. He wonders how brightly this building would burn.

Edge walks lightly but may as well not have bothered. When he finds the cramped room that Gaster is holed up in, he's completely absorbed in the data scrolling across a computer screen. Good.

He won’t kill Gaster. But he’s been in Asgore’s service for years now. There is a great deal he can do to someone without killing them. A taste of what’s to come if Gaster comes near Edge’s people ever again. An object lesson.

He thinks he'll begin with the fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: verbal abuse, past medical abuse on children (Sans and Papyrus), mentions of Underfell!Gaster doing experiments on prisoners back in Underfell, Red offering to murder Gaster, Sans trying to fuck his way out of uncomfortable discussions, Edge putting some serious hurt on Gaster as a warning. Good times are had by all.
> 
> "The most tender place in my heart is for strangers  
> I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous."  
> \- Neko Case, Hold On, Hold On


	7. a pain in the neck (post-series h/c fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in some nebulous future where the three of them have figured their shit out. Sometimes, Edge is the one who needs fussing over.

It's one of Edge's bad days.

He hasn't had one in a long while, or at least not one this bad. The headache is a sharp pain behind his damaged socket that has him wincing from light. The day drags through a thousand petty irritations, and it's a miracle that he makes it home without biting someone's head off.

(Undyne came closest when she told him to go home. As if he can't do his fucking job when he's in pain. As if he hasn't done it a thousand times before.)

So he's glad to be sitting on his own couch. It's at least quiet here, a single lamp turned to allow him to do paperwork. Even that marginal bit of light hurts but it's tolerable.

The floor creaks beside the couch. It's a courtesy; his brother can move silently when he has to. When Edge turns his head to look at him, Red is standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at him like he's the biggest idiot in multiple universes. "Bad one?"

Of course Red could take one look at him and know. The trials of having a judge for a brother. Edge says tightly, "It's fine."

"You seriously gonna sit there and do paperwork?"

"Yes."

Red stands there for another moment, looking at him, clearly thinking. Then he reaches out, unusually tentative, and lays his hand on the back of Edge's neck. He's beautifully warm. Then he digs his thumb into the cartilage between Edge's vertebrae with merciless pressure. Edge feels it all the way down to the tips of his fingers. He makes an undignified noise, head tipping back into Red's hand.

They used to do this years ago, when the headaches started, when Edge was a gawky adolescent with a new and hideous scar. It was the only time Red touched him gently, slipping into the dark corners where Edge would hide in his misery to knead at the trapped and clotted magic between his bones until the pain eased. He doesn't know why Red stopped or why he's started again, and at the moment, he doesn't care. Some of the pain is yielding under Red's practiced touch.

"Stubborn asshole," Red says. He sounds bored by Edge's bullshit but not unkind. "Go to bed. You ain't gonna get anywhere like this."

"I have--" Edge grunts as Red does something that sends a shock of pain through him, followed by a profound sense of tightness releasing. He can feel himself going slack. "-- responsibilities."

"Yeah, yeah." Red stops kneading and just rests his hand on the invisible scar that bisects Edge's spine. It's as if he's preparing to hold Edge together with his bare hands if he has to. "Sansy, tell him to stop being a jackass."

Edge didn't even hear the shortcut announcing Sans's arrival. He's not at his best. He turns his head too sharply and gets a sickening stab of pain for his trouble. Sans is sitting on the other end of the couch, legs folded under him. It's hard to tell how long he was sitting there, watching and silent.

"C'mere, edgelord," Sans says, patting his lap.

"I have work," Edge says, but his heart's not in it. He can see the rest of his evening laid out before him. If he insists, Red will make a nuisance of himself and Sans won't openly object but will probably try to tempt him with sex or cuddling. He's never been able to turn Sans down when it comes to cuddling.

"Uh-huh," Sans says agreeably, giving him nothing to argue with, nothing to resist. "Just for a minute."

Sighing heavily, Edge succumbs to the inevitable and shifts to lay his head in Sans's lap. It leaves his legs draped ridiculously over the arm of the sofa, which was made more at Red and Sans's scale than his own. Edge looks up into Sans's face and muses, "In practice, that collar seems to result in you giving _me_ orders."

"Friendly suggestions," Sans says. He rests his hand on Edge's brow and it's blessedly cool. Red is pulling Edge's boots off, letting each drop to the floor with a thud. "C'mon, buddy. Five minutes. Just close your eyes and chill."

"How quickly one minute becomes five," Edge says.

"Funny how that happens," Sans says.

The light turns off, and it is such a visceral relief. The pounding din in Edge's head has quieted but it's still something better slept off than struggled through.

Sans's eyelights burn patiently like twin stars above him. Edge has no doubt his brother is positioning himself to cover the door, knowing Edge won't let his guard down unless he knows someone is picking up the slack.

"Wake me in an hour," Edge says into the darkness.

"Sure thing," Sans says. Butter wouldn't melt in his clever mouth.

"Whatever you say, boss," Red says from the direction of the kitchen table, in the tone that says he'll listen to all of Edge's orders but the stupid ones.

They are forever sniping at each other but when they decide to present a united front, they are a menace. He adores them and pities anyone who's not wise enough to get out of their way. They have this handled. They have _him_ handled.

For the moment, Edge lets himself yield.


	8. edge pov in the trick is to keep breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoverflit mentioned in their comment on the trick is to keep breathing chapter four that they wondered about what Edge was thinking during a certain scene, so here's a brief snippet along those lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content notes in the end notes

When Edge touches Sans's soul, there is a moment where he feels absolutely nothing. It's as if he's touching a dead, empty thing, and he is terrified.

Sans flinches like he thinks Edge is going to strike him. Slowly, Edge realizes that the fear is not all his. Sans is there, so deeply buried even from himself that Edge catches only flashes of him like tiny, bright fish in muddy water. All he can feel is that Sans is in pain, and has been, and thinks he always will be.

Edge has thought many times of this moment. Sans offering him his soul to touch, Edge's collar wrapped tenderly around his throat. There was no version of this fantasy where Sans flinched from him. Then again, there was no version where Sans was dying.

There's no room in this for what Edge wants. He clears his head, trying to radiate calm resolve. He has this under control. He'll fix it. He won't go prying around in Sans's head, taking things that aren't offered. Sans can trust him. It's not as if Sans has another choice, and oh, that knowledge is bitter.

Sans takes a deep breath. His expression is superficially calm, but that means less than nothing. Edge gets the nonsensical image of a phalange snapping, a memory that's not his own. Not relevant at the moment, but distracting nonetheless.

"I'm ready," Sans says. His soul beats erratically under Edge's fingers, betraying the lie.

In a kinder world, they would have time for Edge to gently ease him into this. But they don't. When he pushes healing magic into Sans, it's with all the brutal efficiency he has.

Perhaps it shouldn't surprise him that Sans fights. Most of the magic Edge tries to pour into him gets shoved right back. Sans's soul is closed down too tight to allow it in. This needs to be done, but the thought of forcing magic into Sans when he's terrified and resisting makes him sick. Which doesn't mean he won't do it. It only means he'll never forgive himself for it.

"Sans." Edge is not practiced at being soothing, but he tries. There's a flicker of recognition through the connection. "It's all right. Let me help you."

More flashes of emotion, like a passing streetlight illuminates the dark interior of a car: Sans is overwhelmed, he's lost, he's afraid of dying, but he doesn't panic. There's no anger in him towards Edge for doing this. Edge is pathetically grateful for that.

Sans's body was already on the verge of giving out; it's no great surprise when his resistance runs dry and he goes slack. Only Edge's grip on his hands keeps him from dropping his soul. He makes a wretched little noise that threatens to rip Edge's soul out of his chest.

"Hush," Edge murmurs. He wishes he had the right to gather Sans to his chest and hold him. He has to settle for saving Sans's life. "Hush. You did well. I have you."

As if he hears, Sans's breathing starts to slow. Now that he's passed through the other side of exhaustion, now that Edge's magic pours into him without resistance, the flickers Edge gets from him (bitter self-loathing, resignation) ease into something quieter. A clear mental image passes between them: the void, that expanse of endless nothing, lightless and pitiless and-- not empty. Something was waiting there, something Sans's mind shies away from even now, and it is hungry, and Sans is too tired to fight. Emptiness. Darkness.

Edge thinks of stars. 

The stars were always more of his brother's preoccupation than his own, but not long after they'd come to the surface, he'd joined Red and Sans on one of their vigils on the roof, just staring up into the night sky with a telescope. They hadn't requested his company, but they didn't seem to mind it either. The three of them just sat there, watching the stars emerge from the darkness, almost too dim to see at first but ever brightening as full dark reached them until the sky was brimming with tiny points of light. It had been beautiful. 

(They had been beautiful with the stars in their eyes, Red happier than Edge had seen him in years, Sans's grin genuine for once. Edge had struggled to keep his eyes raised to the sky when they were there, eclipsing his vision.)

He can't tell for a moment if that memory passed between them, but then he feels Sans's exhausted fear give way to something like wonder, and then to fragile peace.

(Feeling him yield, so like and unlike Red, sends that familiar heat to Edge's pelvis. It's worsened by the fact that Sans's soul is starting to get slick beneath his bare fingers, his mouth filled with the memory of licking Red's soul clean, that sweet taste upon his tongue. He shoves the feeling away, disgusted with it and himself, glad that Sans doesn't seem to notice.)

Sans is calm now. Unresisting. Edge gets to work.

It's more magic than he's spent in years, all of it shoved into one small, precious soul. His hands are trembling. He's sweating. He doesn't let go. His mind flashes back to another night, the stark white of the Lab, pouring everything he had into the empty shell of his brother. How dare the universe make him relive this. How dare death try to take them both from him. He refuses. He gives more, pushing himself harder. Slowly, slowly, the open wound in Sans's soul begins to knit closed. Slowly, the life stops bleeding out of him, though Edge is so exhausted it feels like he's giving Sans part of his own life to make up the balance. An acceptable bargain.

Finally, when the edges of his vision are swimming with darkness, Edge stops. He can hear his own ragged breathing. Sans's consciousness bobs to the surface of that darkness like a cork, but Edge doesn't relax until Sans blearily opens his eyes. Edge can see that clever, frustrating mind working, if slower than usual. The killing tension drops out of his spine, leaving him limp and wrung out.

Sans is not dead. No longer dying. Not lost. He's here, his hands resting in Edge's, his soul dim and scarred but steadily beating. He's alive.

And Edge is going to damned well keep him that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: the aftermath of a cracked soul, Sans playing ding-dong-ditch with death, dubcon soul touching (because Sans doesn't really have an alternate option for who heals him, although he'd have asked Edge if he did have the choice), mention of the possibility of having to force magic into Sans while he's resisting (which doesn't happen), flashback to Red Falling Down


	9. catch your breath chapter 2.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apology blowjobs are always the solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Red's angry. The kind of angry where if he was back home, he'd hunt down some asshole who (probably) deserved it and take his frustration out on them. But nooo, they gotta be all moral now. Ain't that a bitch. 

It's not even a good clean anger. He's pissed at Sans and his broken fucking soul and how he's too tired and hurt and pathetic to even properly scream at for being stupid, but he wants to burn to ashes everyone who laid a fucking finger on Sans starting with the rest of the rabbit clan and ending with Queen Fishbitch. 

(He trusted her with Edge. He _trusted_ her.)

The one thing that's crystal fucking clear: Gaster. Red's going to make that fucker bleed for this. No stupid, conflicted feelings there. The Gaster from his universe was a sadistic asshole but no worse than anybody else. Garden variety. If his Gaster tripped across Red and Edge in the void, he might send them across universes just to see what'd happen. It wouldn't be personal. But the way Sans looks haunted every time Red says Gaster's name tells him that this is different. 

(Red should've pulled the story out from behind Sans's teeth while he had guilt and painkillers on his side. But he hadn't. He'd looked at that bruise around Sans's throat and that look in his eyes and he'd let it go. And that makes him even angrier.)

Red can wait for Gaster. Collect some intel. Get the real story. Make a plan with Edge. And then, when they've got Gaster where they want him... Edge might have a higher LV and more kills, but he kills people clean. Red doesn't. Making someone pay for fucking with what's his can't be rushed.

Besides. He has other ways to deal with being pissed.

The office door opens. Edge always did have great timing. Seeing Red with his boots propped up on the desk gives him a split second's pause before he smoothly steps in and closes the door behind him. He locks it for good measure.

"I take it you're not here to bring me information," Edge says.

Red gets up and prowls over to Edge. Anybody else would see the look on his face and back away slowly. As Red sinks to his knees and starts to unbutton Edge's pants, Edge frowns down at him. Red doesn't flinch. He's not Sans. He's got nothing to hide.

Apparently Edge figures the potential rewards outweigh the risks of putting his junk anywhere near Red's teeth when he's in this mood. When Red gets his zipper down and reaches inside, he touches hot magic. Edge isn't hard yet, not that fast, but that's fine. Red'll fix that.

He draws Edge's cock out and takes it in his mouth, reveling in the way Edge hisses softly through his teeth. It's heavy and hot on his tongue. He can feel Edge getting hard in his mouth. He puts his hands on Edge's hips, trying to push him back against the door, but Edge doesn't budge. Probably using gravity magic, the bastard. Edge makes an amused noise, and Red thinks about biting. No point. Edge can predict him too well; he'd just dismiss his magic and leave Red biting down on air. No, this is better. It quiets that feeling that he's had since he saw Sans's soul, the one that's too much like guilt.

Red fully applies himself. Uses all the tricks he knows Edge likes. Edge doesn't make a sound, his breathing even, but he's tense beneath Red's hands. Red is the one making all the noise, the wet sounds of his mouth, a few deliberate hums, the occasional muffled moan as he starts to really get into it. When he takes Edge down his throat, Edge's breath finally shudders out. He's close. Red gives up on breathing for the moment and just deals with the discomfort so he can keep swallowing. When he makes a noise like a purr, Edge grabs him by the back of his neck and holds him in place. Only the slight jerk of Edge's hips and the warmth in his throat tell him that Edge comes. That's plenty satisfaction enough, as much as Red wishes Edge groaned so all the fancy-pants politicians could know what they're doing.

Finally, Edge relaxes his grip and Red pulls off to suck in sweet air. He wipes his mouth and then licks the excess off his teeth, a move that makes the corners of Edge's eyes tighten a little. Edge's magic disappears, probably so Red can't get any ideas about an encore.

"Killjoy," Red mutters, settling back on his heels. He leaves Edge's fly open. He's been about as useful as he intends to be.

Edge zips and buttons his pants and then leans back against the door, arms crossed. He studies Red's face for a long moment but doesn't ask the obvious question: _why?_

Red just got a taste of his own medicine. It took the universe three years but he finally knows a little of what Edge dealt with after he Fell, that feeling of being shit-scared and helpless and infuriated at the same time. Red doesn't much care for it.

So. Apology blowjobs, sans (heh) actual apology. It's more Red's style.

Edge might see some of that in his expression. He might not. He inclines his head. Crisply, he asks, "Was that all?"

No, Red's pretty sure it's gonna take more than one blowjob to make up for it. But it's a start. He gets up off the floor, readjusting his jacket. "The dumbass is fine."

He can bring up the mark he left on Sans (that Sans _demanded_ and oh, doesn't that just make him feel things he'd rather not) later, when they're home. Edge'll be pleased in that weird, conflicted way he is about Sans lately, his territorial bastard side fighting it out with the part of him that wants to court Sans all proper and sweet and fair. Whatever. Let Sans have Edge's romantic notions. Red's just hoping to be screwed through the nearest flat surface when he can be as loud as he wants.

Edge relaxes a little. He's been too focused on boundaries or whatever to just go and see Sans himself to settle his nerves. "Good."

"He was even feeling up to some good old-fashioned fucking," Red says cheerfully. "Y'know. A little love injection."

So much for that relaxation. Edge sighs and rubs at his brow. "Are you leaving or not?"

Amazing what irritating Edge can do for his mood. With a slightly clearer conscience, Red winks at his brother and takes a shortcut home.

The dark between one door and another is empty. That's fine. Let the motherfucker hide for now. Sooner or later, Red’s coming for him.

And then he's going to have a great time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: references to the killing Red did back in Underfell, references to the killing Red is GOING to do when he gets a hold of Gaster.


	10. a stranger to yourself (prequel, red pov)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red changes his mind.
> 
> (Prequel to the main series set about a month after Red and Edge end up in the Undertale universe.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

One thing about this new universe: it’s amazing these fuckers get anything done.

There are meetings. So many fucking meetings recounting over and over again to various people (the king, his various advisors, this version of Alphys) that no, Red and Edge seriously just ended up in Sans’s shed in this version of Snowdin, no, they don’t know how they got here, no, they don’t know how to get back, no, they are definitely not going to kill anybody here, pinky swear. (Meaning that they’ll only kill if they have to, of course.) Then there are meetings about how to “integrate them into monster society”, whatever the fuck that means, which mostly involves a lot of paperwork for new ID and very earnest people trying to give them money to live on until they get jobs. 

(Red thought Edge was going to have a stroke. Hell, he thought he was going to have one himself. They just wouldn’t say what they _wanted_ in exchange for all this generosity. When the price isn’t on the menu, it’s usually too high to afford. At least Sans and Papyrus have an excuse for giving a shit.)

And now that all that bullshit is finally settled, still more goddamn meetings. Edge is trying to get in the Guard; this Undyne got one look at him and, because she isn’t stupid, offered him a chance. But that means another interview with the king and more paperwork and blah blah blah, way to make Red thankful for his decision not to be a productive member of society. He didn’t have to go through an interview process to go stand in the park, eavesdrop and steal the humans’ wallets for a few hours.

So here he is, cruelly abandoned in his hour of need. And by need, he means boredom. He hasn’t had this much time off in years. It was okay for the first couple weeks, but right now he’d be happy to have the excuse to kick somebody’s skull in. He can feel that twitchiness coming on that means he needs Edge to hurt him or he needs to hurt somebody else or smoke up or _something_. It’s not bad, not yet, but if he doesn’t get that release within the next couple days, things are gonna get ugly.

At least there’s the TV. Back home, all the channels they got were MTT. 24/7 propaganda by an unstable robot who didn’t need to sleep. The executions were sometimes good for a laugh, but fuck, all the rah-rah bullshit got tired. So the fact that he can turn on the TV and see more than one channel, including one that has science stuff all the fucking time, is pretty fucking sweet. He could get used to that. At the moment, there’s a pair of humans doing science by blowing various stuff up on a slow-mo camera. Good enough. Distracting, anyway.

At least until a better distraction walks into the room.

The first time Red checked Sans, he was too distracted by the fucking lousy stats to notice the words that came along with them. _sans. be careful._ Just that. Red hates vague double meaning checks. Be careful because he’s easy to break? Be careful because Sans is a threat somehow? All of the above? It’s annoying. _Sans_ is annoying with his bored slouch and his puns and his empty grin, watching everything (judging everything) through tired eyes and saying only meaningless bullshit. It puts Red’s back up.

But Edge wants him. Edge has never wanted anybody but Red before, which should probably make Red want to quietly shank Sans and make it look like an accident. But he can’t deny that he’s a little pleased that the only other person ever to turn Edge’s head is still him, just with that sad “look at the poor kitten with three legs” HP and no sense of self-preservation.

Red wants Edge to get what he wants (when he can afford to let him have it). Besides, Sans is fun to needle to see where his breaking point is, if he has one. The closest Red came so far to getting him to snap was being a dick to Papyrus, which made Sans set his jaw like he was going to crack his teeth, but he doesn’t have the heart for it, really. Papyrus is too deep-down kind.

Unlike Sans. Red’s pretty sure that under Sans’s judgemental asshole exterior beats the heart of an even bigger asshole for all his offering food and watching Edge with soft eyes. Can’t take that away no matter what universe they’re in.

Sans glances at the TV, nods his approval and wanders over to the couch. Too bad Red is parked right in the middle of it, taking up all the room. After a moment, Sans prods Red’s ankle with a toe. "You gonna move over, buddy?"

Red grins up at him and makes himself more comfortable, spreading his knees wide to take up more space. His couch now. "Nope."

Sans looks at him with his default bored-amused expression that means he's actually kind of annoyed. Then he shrugs, pushes Red's knee out of the way, and squishes himself into the corner of the couch. It's such a blatant, casual invasion of space that would get somebody killed back home that Red just stares at him. Sans grins mildly back.

Sans is warm. Not as warm as Edge, who puts out heat like a furnace with all that HP, but it feels surprisingly nice. Red thinks uncomfortably of those few precious moments after Edge works him over, when it's just their bodies pressed together in simple animal comfort before Red makes himself pull away.

But if it comes down to a real fight for survival, there's no saving Sans. Not with his HP. He's poisoned with all that goddamn sentiment and morality. He can't get any softer. It can’t hurt him when he’s already doomed.

Sans is suddenly very still, watching Red's face, on alert. Then he starts to get up. "All right, my bad. I'm--"

So fucking considerate. Such a sweet guy.

Red throws himself sideways, shouldering Sans back into the corner of the couch hard enough to make Sans grunt. Then he leans heavily into him, pinning him there. He's so soft, his body yielding where Edge's is hard.

"What the fuck," Sans says, a little breathless. 

(Gets off on a bit of manhandling, maybe. Ain't that interesting.)

Red cranes his head to grin at him. "Whatsamatter, Sansy? You're the one who wanted to play gay chicken."

"I wanted to sit on my own goddamn couch." Sans elbows Red a little, which just makes Red lean on him harder. "Seriously, are you gonna move or not?"

"Make me," Red says.

There is a moment Sans actually thinks about it. Red can see it in his eyes, a spark of life. He starts to grin with malicious delight because yes, finally--

Then Sans blinks and it's gone, his expression back to its usual neutral grin. "Nah. Too much work."

With a disgruntled noise, Red sits up, giving him some space to breathe. He stays close enough that their bodies are touching, Sans a line of warmth all along his side and his leg. Even that little bit of contact is heady when you’re starved for it. Aggravating as Sans is, Red wants to pull him onto his lap and hold him tight, soaking up the foreign comfort of being close to someone without guilt, but he thinks Sans would get pissed. Or worse, that he’d just let Red do it, too apathetic to resist. That tendency of Sans to go limp and let things happen makes Red uneasy. “Fine, you big baby.”

Red turns back to the TV. He can feel Sans studying him. Let him look. Red’s got nothing to hide.

“Didn’t get hugged enough as a kid?” Beneath the barb, there’s a kind of cautious sympathy that makes Red want to throw the remote at his face. He immediately ruins it by adding, “Y’know, if you weren’t such a fucking dick to your brother, you could do this with him.”

Red grins crookedly. Sans has no idea the things Red does with Edge when the bedroom door is closed at night. Edge is naturally quiet but Red’s practically chewed holes in the borrowed pillow, trying to keep silent as Edge fucks him. Sans is gonna find out sooner or later; he’s already started to suspect something, Red thinks, but he’s probably telling himself that he’s wrong. He won’t want to accept that there’s a universe where he would lay hands on the baby brother he’s got on a pedestal, and one thing’s gotten real clear over the last month or so: Sans is good at not seeing what he doesn’t want to see.

“Yeah, ‘cause Edge is a poor sweet innocent little angel who just wants to be loved,” Red scoffs. “Get real. Besides, you gotta admit we’re squishier.”

“True,” Sans says. “Don’t suppose you’re gonna move over.”

“Nope.” Red turns the TV’s volume up a couple notches. The next episode is something about proving that the moon landing wasn’t a hoax (apparently because some humans are stupid in really new and surprising ways) which means Sans is likely to stay put for at least an hour. He’s a sucker for space stuff, the one thing they have in common. “You gonna cry about it?”

“I would, but I pawned all my emotions in exchange for the ability to bend spoons with my mind.”

With the necessary bullshit snark exchanged, they both shut up to watch the show. Slowly, Sans relaxes, letting his leg and hip press more against Red’s. Red thinks about reaching over and just sliding his hand up between Sans’s thighs, but… nah. He doesn't think Sans will be into it. He might take a subtler touch. Besides, this cuddling thing is surprisingly comfortable. He could get used to it.

Maybe Sans isn’t completely useless after all.

***

Red doesn’t see it coming. Surprise is what lets Sans shove him against the wall hard enough to make the pictures rattle in their frames, and surprise is what keeps Red there for a moment, staring down into Sans’s furious eyes.

Welp. Guess Sans finally figured it out.

“Whatever you’re doing with Edge, it stops right now,” Sans says, his voice very cold and very calm. “I’m not gonna say it twice.”

This jumped up little fucker, this bit of free EXP, is actually _threatening_ him. He has to know Red could kill him without breaking a sweat, but he’s still up in Red’s face, magic radiating off him like ozone before a lightning strike. The fact that he’s giving Red a warning at all says he doesn’t want to kill him; he’s smart enough to know that for all Red has a higher HP, he’s just as much of a cripple as Sans when you get down to it. One good sneak attack from behind would finish him off. But here Sans is, risking Red just running him through.

For Edge. To try to protect Edge from Red. That’s his breaking point. That’s what it took to rip the mask off so Red could see the fascinating goddamn mess underneath, an open wound just begging to be prodded. Finally, something real.

Red thinks: _There you are._

Red thinks: _I can work with this._

He starts to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: Red not actually giving a shit about Sans aside from him being something Edge wants; dubcon cuddling (?); Sans finds out about Red and Edge's relationship and assumes that it's nonconsensual incest instead of the fucked up but consensual mess it actually is; Red is not a particularly moral dude


	11. his better judgement (prequel, sans pov)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Sans have a chat on the roof. Amazingly, no one gets shoved off.
> 
> Set in the aftermath of 'a stranger to yourself', where Sans found out about Red and Edge's relationship and reacted poorly. Set about five months before the main fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in endnotes

Despite his best efforts, Sans has to come home sometimes. He can linger at Grillby's and work all the double-time at the call center he wants, but he can't avoid his own house forever no matter how tempting it is. But nobody said he had to actually stay inside.

The roof is safe. It's rough in there where the people are. Everything is awkward, balanced on the edge (ha) of a knife. Papyrus is twitchy and trying too hard to pretend everything’s fine. Red keeps attempting to talk to him because their last conversation went so fucking well. And Edge...

Well. Edge was already kind of distant, assessing Sans, feeling him out. Sans gets that. The guy's had a rough life, and he and Red don't exactly have an easy fraternal relationship where he'd inherently trust Sans. But Sans kind of hoped they might be buddies eventually. 

He fucked that up the second he laid hands on Red. Edge had been beyond furious, the kind where Sans is lucky that he can't take a punch or he's pretty sure Edge would've wanted to take it outside. Now that polite coolness has frozen over into something downright bitterly icy the few times they crossed paths since. 

That's what Sans gets for trying to do something for once. He should know better.

The cigarette in his mouth is just ashes now, barely smoldering. Sans flicks it off the roof and watches it arc like a shooting star before landing on the wet concrete of the sidewalk.

"Three point shot," Red says from behind him. "Nice."

Of course.

Sans pulls out another cigarette and lights it with his shitty plastic disposable lighter. Says nothing. He doesn't think Red has the shame to be bothered by a little awkward silence and leave, but it's worth a shot.

No dice. Red sits down on the edge of the roof beside him, making himself at home. Sans considers whether it's worth the fallout to just shove him off the roof to make a point, given that Red wouldn't actually hit the ground.

"Been pretty scarce the last couple of days," Red says.

Sans exhales smoke. "It's like it's intentional or something."

"Figured you'd come around," Red says. "You have to sleep sometime."

And people think _Sans_ is creepy. He ignores Red, watching the branches of the trees lining the street tremble in the wind.

"But you don't sleep much these days, do you?" Red says. “What’s the matter? Guilty conscience?”

"What do you want?" Sans says, his voice flat.

"I get bored," Red says. "You caught me off guard, pal. I thought you people were supposed to be all civilized."

"And I thought the incest taboo was a universal thing. Looks like we were both wrong."

"Yeahhhh," Red says, dragging the word out. "Okay. So you wanna talk about the elephant in the room here?"

The cigarette snaps neatly in Sans’s fingers. It joins its fallen brethren in the alley. At this rate, Sans is gonna have to make another trip to the corner store. "Depends. Is the elephant fucking his brother?"

Red snorts. "Yeah, and he likes it. Although it’s usually the other way around." 

Sour spit wells up in Sans's mouth, the precursor to puking off the side of the roof. If he had the energy to hate anything, he'd spend it on Red. Very quietly, he repeats, "What do you want?"

Red leans back, his weight braced on his hands, his feet swinging idly over empty space. Contemplatively, he says, "You were gonna throw down for my brother."

Sans shrugs. It was his usual desperation move, to threaten someone in the hopes that they wouldn’t make him back it up. But if Red had refused and Edge hadn’t stepped in… Well, Sans wouldn’t try to fight Red fair, or as fair as they get. He’d back off. But as Red said: everybody has to sleep sometime.

"Why’d you go and do something that stupid?" Red asks.

It's such a ridiculous question that it finally makes Sans look at him to see if he's being mocked. But no, Red seems sincere, his eyes bright and interested.

"I couldn't let something like that happen to him," Sans says. It’s hard enough to look himself in the eyes as it is. 

The truth is he hadn’t exactly been thinking. He saw them kiss in the hallway, a stolen moment in what they thought was privacy, Edge tense and stone-faced, Red grinning and smug, and he went cold. He moved quietly away, just bided his time in the kitchen until he heard Edge and Papyrus talking upstairs. Then he let himself take his shot. He’s not gonna lie and say it wasn’t gratifying after a month of dealing with Red’s bullshit. He hit Red harder than he had to, although his lousy ATK meant it only shaved a single HP off. Since he was just bouncing Red off the wall, he didn’t even get to use KR. But he sincerely hopes he left some bruises.

“What do you care?” Red asks. “He’s not your fucking problem.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re here, screwing on my mattress and eating my food,” Sans says. “Because neither of you are my fucking problem. Because you haven’t been my fucking problem since you showed up. Because I haven’t goddamn _vouched_ for you when Asgore asked--”

“Oh, we’re both your problem now, huh?” Red asks, amused. “Funny how it didn’t feel like it a couple days ago.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Sans says.

Red tilts his head, studying Sans like a crow eyes something shiny. Then he snorts and looks away like Sans isn’t enough of a threat to waste his attention on. “You talk a pretty good game for somebody with no LV to back it up, but I ain’t impressed.”

“Good thing I don’t give a fuck about your opinion.” Sans gathers his feet under him. “Let’s go back to ignoring each other. That worked better for me.”

“Thanks for giving a shit,” Red says.

Sans stops in the middle of getting up. When he looks at Red, Red’s grin is lopsided. He looks tired.

“Most people wouldn’t,” Red continues. “Not enough to risk their fucking life for him, anyway.”

Wow. Because a moment of feeling genuinely sorry for Red is really what Sans needed tonight. Edge and Red have a habit of complicating things that Sans doesn’t want to be complicated: Incest is bad, murder is never understandable, and Red deserves all the anger Sans can throw at him.

Sans jumped to the worst conclusion so easily. He’s got his choice of nightmares ( _don’t think about Gaster_ ) but the thing that really keeps him up at night is the all the many ways he’s hurt his brother. All the ways he let his brother be hurt. So he’d seen Red and Edge through the funhouse mirror of all that bullshit and he’d thought...

He can’t hold this awkward half-standing position forever. Against his better judgement, he sits back down. Since he’s there, he pulls out the second to last cigarette and lights it. Papyrus is already going to get on his case about his clothes reeking of cigarettes. Might as well go for the full chainsmoking experience, finish the pack, and deal with the jitters.

“You know lousy people, then,” Sans says.

Red snorts. “Yeah, no shit. It’s like you live in the good, non-murdery universe or something. Lemme bum a smoke.”

Of course. Give him an inch and Red takes a mile. Sans makes the pack disappear back into his inventory. “Fuck off.”

Man, dealing with Red is so much more pleasant now that he’s allowed to be a dick.

“I’ll tell your bro you apologized so he’ll get off your back.” When Sans just looks at him, Red grins wide and sharp. “I’ll tell the boss you apologized so he’ll be less pissed at you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be _pals_ with him?”

At this point, Sans’ll settle for not having to worry that Edge’ll kill him in his sleep. Edge isn’t going to forget what Sans did anytime soon, if ever. Red is Edge’s brother, his top priority, and Sans gets the feeling that Edge can hold a grudge a hell of a lot longer than Sans can.

Sans pulls the pack of cigarettes back out and holds it out to Red. “I’m not apologizing.”

“Yeah, fuck that. Did you miss the part where I said ‘hey, thanks for trying to protect my bro like a goddamn idiot’?” Red demands, plucking the last cigarette out of the pack and promptly tossing the empty package off the roof, adding littering to his rap sheet. “You think I do that a lot? Do I seem like the polite type to you? Gimme a lighter.”

Sans pulls the lighter out of his pocket and lights up his own cigarette. “That wasn’t part of the bargain, Miss Manners.”

“What, am I supposed to start a fire with my mind?” Red asks. “It was pretty fucking implicit.”

“We don’t recognize implicit terms on this roof. You should’ve gone over the contract with your lawyers.” When Sans starts to put the lighter away, Red tries to make a grab for it. _Miss_. From his other side, Sans says, “Make me an offer, grabby hands.”

Red turns to look at him. He doesn’t even have the decency to look annoyed. His eyes are half-lidded, pleased in a way that makes Sans feel like he just made a bad move in chess. He thought he was winning but he opened the door for Red to checkmate.

“I dunno, Sansy,” Red says. “Figure you can have a lot of things if you ask. What do you want?”

Sans knows what he sounds like when he’s flirting, but he also knows Red is an asshole who plays gay chicken. He sees that light in Red’s eyes, all malicious interest like Sans is a bug under a magnifying glass. Maybe Red sees that Sans keeps it in his pants these days and thinks he’s in denial. Or the closet. Too bad for him that Sans sucked cock in college like he had a fellatio scholarship and he was worried about meeting the requirements.

“Huh,” Sans says. “Interesting philosophical question. You sure you want the answer?”

Red leans closer, close enough to touch, and purrs, “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

“Okay.” Sans tosses the lighter off the roof. It was almost empty anyway. “Fetch.”

Red looks down at the place where the lighter landed, just a glint of plastic shards in the moonlight, then back at Sans. That time he does look a little annoyed and grudgingly impressed by the depth of Sans’s pettiness. Score one for Sans. “I knew you were an asshole.”

Sans takes a smug drag off his cigarette and shrugs. “Universal constant, I guess.”

“I like you better now that you’re not pretending to be nice.”

“That’s great. I don’t give a fuck about you one way or the other.”

They both know it’s a lie. He doesn’t like Red, but whatever he feels sure as hell isn’t as comfortable as apathy. He stumbled on Red pocketing non-perishables again this morning, and even knowing that Red is a murderous asshole who fucks his own brother, when Red tensed like Sans was going to lash out at him for taking their food, Sans’s soul ached like it was going to crack.

“Heh. Yeah, I can tell.” Red puts his hand on Sans’s shoulder, sudden enough that Sans has to try not to flinch. It doesn’t help that Red doesn’t do it like a normal person; his hand rests instead on the place where Sans’s neck meets his shoulder. Sans is suddenly very glad that he left his hoodie on, the protection of an extra layer between Red’s hand and his vulnerable throat. Red smiles like a friendly shark, his eyes bright. “You made yourself interesting, you know that?”

Somehow Sans lost control of this conversation. He tries to push Red’s hand off, not sure what he’s going to do if Red doesn’t let go. But Red does, pausing to grab Sans’s hood and pull it over his eyes. Sans refuses to react even if not being able to see Red suddenly seems hazardous to his health.

“Glad we had this little chat,” Red says casually, as if he didn’t imply that he was going to use Sans’s bones to build some furniture in his spare time. “I feel like we really understand each other now, y’know?”

He’s gone with the last word before Sans can even try to respond, not that he was going to bother. Once Red’s out of sight, Sans finally takes the cigarette out of his mouth with the hand he didn’t want Red to see shaking. 

The worst part isn’t that he feels like a mouse a cat played with for a few minutes and then let go. It’s that when Red said he likes Sans, Sans thinks he really meant it. This is what Red does to people he actually likes. Who fucking knows what he would be like if they did something crazy like make friends?

Never going to happen. According to the embassy grapevine, Red and Edge’s housing application was approved. They’ll be gone soon, in their own place. With a little distance, Red will lose this sudden fascination with Sans and find something shiny to occupy himself with instead. Like arson, maybe, or throwing bricks off the highway overpass. Sans isn’t particularly interesting. Red’ll get bored.

As usual, Sans wishes he was a good enough liar to convince himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: realistic reactions to incest, references to Sans assuming that Red was coercing Edge into a sexual relationship, references to Sans planning to kill Red if he had been coercing Edge into sex and refused to stop, references to Red hoarding food and other fellverse bullshit, Red being unnecessarily creepy as a flirting technique


	12. the riddles of our lifetime (prequel, edge pov)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge is angry. Sans is avoidant. This causes some problems.
> 
> Set in the aftermath of 'a stranger to yourself', where Sans found out about Red and Edge's relationship and reacted poorly, and the last part of this weird trilogy. Set about five months before the main fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

After a loud, unpleasant evening, Edge is more than glad to retreat to the temporary refuge of Sans's bedroom and close the door between him and his brother and this infuriating new world. Somehow he has enough restraint not to slam it.

He knows Papyrus is still hovering nearby, probably wringing his hands in that way that makes Edge wince for his fingers. Sans fled to Grillby’s after Edge explained in furious detail that Red is welcome in his bed. At the height of his anger, Edge told Sans to get out of his sight despite the fact that this is Sans’s house, not his own, and Sans had just… gone.

(An overstep that could have gotten them tossed out into the street. But Edge’s anger still seethes whenever he remembers what Sans did and how badly it could have ended if Sans was a little more ruthless or Red was a little less amused at Sans’s sheer gall. He could’ve lost them both. Edge needed Sans gone for a while before he said or did something that couldn’t be taken back.)

But they're not his problem for the moment. His problem is sitting down on Sans's mattress with a long, almost satisfied sigh. Red says cheerfully, "Well, that was a clusterfuck."

He seems unhurt, his HP long since restored to full. Still, Edge says, "Take off your shirt. Let me see your ribs."

"Right here, right now? Hot." Red raises his voice a little. "Hey, Papyrus, you may wanna stop eavesdropping and go downstairs, what with sex not being your thing and all!"

"That's very considerate, Cherry, thank you!" comes Papyrus's muffled voice. Through the door, Edge hears him beat a hasty retreat downstairs. A moment later, the TV comes on. Loudly.

Maybe later Edge will find that funny. At the moment, he sits down behind Red. There's no visible damage, but Sans shoved Red into the wall hard enough to drop his HP by a point. Better to be safe than sorry. He reaches out with healing magic, feeling for cracks.

"Boss, it ain't that bad," Red says.

"Shut up." Edge is tired in the aftermath of adrenaline. The self-recrimination is settling in. This shouldn't have utterly blindsided him. He shouldn't have let his guard down. He shouldn’t have let Red convince him to share a kiss in what he thought was privacy. He shouldn't have been distracted by this foolish idea of making Sans his. He shouldn't have done a lot of things.

No lasting damage. Not even a bruise left behind. Grudgingly, Edge goes from feeling for cracks in the bone to simply running his fingers up and down Red's spine. A soothing gesture, but it’s not Red it’s meant to soothe. Red isn’t as comforting to stroke as Doomfanger, but seeing as that isn’t likely to be an option anytime soon...

“Thought you were gonna kill him for a second,” Red says. It’s hard to tell whether it’s approval or a rebuke. He lets himself be petted with unexpected tolerance.

“Reflex,” Edge says. That’s the promise in the collar, to kill whatever threats to his brother Red doesn’t gleefully handle himself. The miracle is that he was able to stop himself and think past that reaction long enough to recognize Sans.

Sans hadn’t looked like himself. The listless grin was gone, replaced by something wild and defiant. Protective. The goddamn fool.

“Glad you didn’t,” Red says. “That’d be a fucking mess and a half. I mean, there’s all kinds of open country up here to disappear in if we have to, but if we’re gonna run for it, we need a bigger stash of food. And cash.”

As if Edge didn’t consider that option the first night they arrived in this universe, when he was trying to decide whether to risk these strangers’ hospitality or bolt and try to survive on their own. Logic isn’t what stayed his hand and Red knows it.

As Edge’s fingers run past Red’s collar on the next long stroke, he gives it a tug sharp enough to pull Red’s head back. Red doesn’t resist, making an interested little noise that goes straight to Edge’s libido despite all common sense.

Now that he has Red’s full attention, Edge asks, “Is that why you didn’t kill him?”

Red looks back over his shoulder, meeting Edge’s eyes. He looks amused. He’s looked amused since Edge came downstairs to find Sans pinning Red to a wall, aside from the moments that Red looked outright delighted. “Fuck no. Are you kidding? That’s the first interesting thing he’s done this entire time.”

Trust a little manhandling to be what catches Red’s eye.

“One of you could’ve been killed!” Edge snaps. “It was pointless, reckless, _stupid_ \--”

Red grins crookedly. “Didn’t put you off.”

And that is the point, isn’t it? That’s part of why Edge is so fucking angry. Not simply because he would kill anyone else who damaged his brother. Not because Sans came to the worst possible conclusion about Red, who is many things but not a goddamn rapist. Not even because Sans didn’t bother to ask Edge about any of it before going straight to threatening Red, which wouldn’t have been the way to handle it even if Edge was getting abused. 

No. He’s angry for what could have happened to his brother, but he’s also furious that Sans took such an insane risk. Sans is not a fool, despite his attempts to convince people otherwise. He knew how it would have ended if Red hadn’t been in an uncharacteristically forgiving mood, and he did it anyway. He didn’t even make a genuine attempt on Red’s life, which would have been at least _ambitiously_ stupid, only took the risk for the sake of trying to warn him off. For what, his conscience? For Edge’s honor? For some perverse desire that Papyrus sweep his brother’s dust up off the floor when Red was done with him?

Yes, Edge still wants him, and he shouldn’t. At first it was out of a kind of exasperation that if no one else was going to collar Sans before he got himself killed trying to reassure strangers who were menacing him with weapons, then clearly Edge would have to do it himself. But then there was the way that Sans grinned at him with genuine delight the first time Edge reacted to his terrible puns, and the ease with which Sans offered them his and Papyrus’s food, his house, even his own bed despite knowing their LV. There were the dark circles under Sans’s eyes, a haunted weariness beyond simple lack of sleep, and the beauty of his crooked smiles. He’s become someone Edge wants on his own merits. It’s not as intense as what he feels for Red, but it could be if he lets it.

So when Red whispered to him that first night in their borrowed bed, “So you wanna put that pretty little bastard in a collar or just fuck him?” Edge didn’t lie. He probably should have tried for Sans’s sake, considering that Red’s possessive tendencies run as deep as Edge’s, but Red laughed, pleased and indulgent, and told him that could be arranged if Sans could be convinced. After all, how often does the chance come along to literally fuck himself? Isn’t it his job to get Edge what he wants?

Now Edge looks Red in the eyes and says, “What I want doesn’t matter. You’re the one he attacked.”

Red makes a dismissive gesture. “And you’re the one who’s got your panties in a twist about this. I think it’s hilarious.”

Edge has a headache. He pinches the top of his nasal ridge and tries to rein in his temper. Red is an asshole, as always, but he doesn’t deserve to catch the results of Edge’s anger at Sans. “That’s because you’re a reckless idiot.”

“Hey, how many times have you and Undyne’s kicked each other’s ass for stupid reasons?” Red asks. “I forget.”

Edge drops his hand to glare at him. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m _fragile_ ,” Red sneers. “Whatever. Crazy fucker just wanted to make a point. Pretty sure that was one-time only.”

“That’s not particularly reassuring, considering that he already surprised you once.”

Red lights up, a vicious joy in his eyes. “Fuck yeah, he did. He’s like a shiny new puzzlebox to play with.”

“One that has the occasional razor blade hidden in it,” Edge says sourly.

If he was trying to put Red off, that was the wrong thing to say. Red’s grin gets even sharper. “Ain’t it great?”

At least Sans is unlikely to kill him, unlike some of Red’s preoccupations in the past. Edge sighs. “Fine. Don’t blame me if you lose a finger.”

Red shrugs. “Worth it. I got ten of ‘em. Anyway, I’m into it unless you’ve decided he’s too much trouble.”

If Edge was smart, he would have decided exactly that. Unfortunately, his anger is already cooling enough for him to regret being quite so harsh when Sans wasn’t even fighting back. No permanent damage was done. In a few days, this will just be an irritating memory like any of the bullshit Red has pulled over the years, something else Edge has managed to forgive if not forget.

“You should know by now, brother. I have a very high threshold for what’s too much trouble.” Edge runs a fingertip down Red’s spine, lingering at the top of his sacrum, and feels him shiver. As often as Red provokes reactions from him, it’s occasionally gratifying to return the favor. “I keep you, don’t I?”

Red laughs. “Yeah, you do. Tell me again how much you love fucking me. That was great.”

Doubtless it was, considering it’s the only kind of praise he’ll accept. Edge leans close to murmur against his throat, “If you’re quiet, I’ll show you instead.”

Probably a foolish decision, but the secret is already out, and Edge’s nerves are still jangling from that first moment he saw Red’s HP had dropped. That restlessness won’t quiet until he buries himself in his brother, his scent and warmth, his muffled noises and the familiar wetness of his cunt.

Fuck Sans’s judgement and fuck this universe. Red is his.

Red chuckles. Satisfaction radiates from him like a well-fed cat after a productive hunt. He sounds more like himself than the entire time they’ve been in this universe, back on solid ground, and Edge’s soul aches with illicit fondness. “I can do that.”

It’s a lie. Edge ends up having to clamp one hand over Red’s mouth to keep him quiet. Neither of them mind.

***

Edge has gotten used to being the only one awake in the small hours. He’s at his best with about three hours of sleep, a fact that he and Red discovered after a miserable year in Edge’s early childhood where Red insisted he at least try to sleep through the night.

(Red may have been trying to follow some kind of parenting advice he overheard while picking pockets, or he may have just been trying to get Edge to shut up and sit still for a while. Edge vaguely remembers being an active and chatty child, and Red was too damn young to be fending for himself, let alone Edge. It’s amazing he didn’t abandon Edge behind the nearest dumpster.)

(But does Sans understand what Red sacrificed to keep them both alive? No. Did it stop him from being a judgemental bastard? No. Of course not.)

So. Yes. He’s used to this, sitting awake in a quiet house. He’s used to watching Red sleep, his chest rising and falling with the familiar rhythm of his breathing, and then getting up to do some paperwork with Mettaton playing in the background. He’s not used to being cornered in one room in someone else’s house.

Not that Sans and Papyrus told him to stay in his room at night. That would’ve immediately made him suspicious about what they were hiding. Neither of them have complained about him walking through the house like he would at home, checking the windows and the doors, and he tries to return the favor by only doing it a few times a night instead of every hour. There’s no reason to hesitate for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, when he hears someone moving around downstairs.

For fuck’s sake. He’s not the one who should feel awkward, and awkwardness shouldn’t stop him from checking the perimeter. He can’t afford to get sloppy.

Firmly, he opens the door and goes downstairs. Sans is slumped on the couch, trying to become one with the cushions, and Edge relaxes to see that he made it safely home. Ignoring him for the moment, Edge goes and makes sure that the locks on the front door haven’t been tampered with or that, heaven fucking forbid, Sans or Papyrus forgot to lock up again.

When he turns around, Sans is watching him. Edge stares him down, daring him to say something, and Sans is the one who looks away.

“Red okay?” Sans asks.

“You wouldn’t have to ask if you hadn’t thrown him against a fucking wall,” Edge says. Sans winces, his eyes closing, and Edge relents enough to gruffly add, “He’s fine.”

Some of the tension in Sans’s expression eases. He nods and rubs tiredly at his face. “Okay.”

Sans was worried, clearly, but his posture is slack. There’s something familiar about that, tweaking at memories Edge has of the days Red was spiraling downwards before the Fall. He takes a couple steps forward, close enough to smell stale cigarette smoke and, beneath that, alcohol.

Drinking makes Red reckless, dangerously depressed, and even more unpredictable than he is to begin with. Sans doesn’t have the same scars and he sure as hell doesn’t have the same problems, but Edge hasn’t missed that there’s not a drop of alcohol in the house.

Evenly, Edge asks, “You were drinking?”

Sans shrugs. 

“Ah,” Edge says. “Worried you hadn’t been stupid enough for one night?”

Sans doesn’t open his eyes. In the careful way of someone who’s trying hard to sound sober, his enunciation sharp enough to cut glass, he says, “When a guy finds out he’s a few dead butterflies away from fucking his own brother, consensual or not, drinking seems like a pretty good idea.”

Self-pity. Lovely. Edge stares at Sans for a long few moments, seething, but he doesn’t have the heart to have the same fucking argument twice in the span of a few hours. Fighting to keep his voice quiet and controlled, Edge says, “For fuck’s sake, get your shit together.”

No matter how much he’d been drinking, a verbal prod like that would shake Red out of his maudlin bullshit. He’d wake up and snarl right back. Sans’s grin quirks, bitter, but all he says is, “Okay.”

Amazing how infuriating that passivity is. Sans doesn’t even care enough to fight with him.

There’s no talking to him when he’s like this. Edge walks past the couch to the kitchen, yanks a mug from the rack where it’s air-drying, and fills it with water, not bothering to be quiet about it. Then he goes back to the living room and puts it on the floor at Sans’s feet. Sans gives no indication that he even notices.

Fine. Let him suffer through a hangover. It’s what he deserves for being an idiot.

Aggravated, Edge goes through the process of checking the rest of the house. Papyrus, sitting at his desktop computer and replying to someone on social media, greets him like it’s completely normal to have a scowling person storm into his bedroom, rattle the window to make sure it’s locked, and leave without a word. Papyrus deserves better than Edge’s discourtesy, but it’s probably for the best that Edge doesn’t say anything to anyone at the moment.

He slips back into Sans’s bedroom and climbs into bed. Red makes a vague interrogative noise, still mostly asleep but able to drag himself back to consciousness at a word, and Edge tells him brusquely, “It’s fine.”

Red grunts an acknowledgement and rolls onto his side, giving Edge his back. It’s familiar from a thousand nights they’ve slept together, even before they were lovers. A fixed point in an unfamiliar world. Edge keeps his eyes on Red as he settles in to wait for morning.

It’s going to be a long night.

***

To Edge’s surprise, he doesn’t come out of his room at six the next morning to find Sans groaning on the couch in hungover misery, which puts him one up on Red. He can hear the shower running, and Papyrus is in his room getting dressed for his day of wrangling children. May he have the joy of it.

Edge goes to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee and some breakfast. He’s the only one in the house who can cook (though Papyrus is improving with honest feedback) and it’s the least he can do as a guest in their home. Besides, he’s petty enough to hope that having to deal with the smell of eggs cooking will make Sans regret his alcoholic-related decisions.

He’s plated an omelet and is cracking the eggs for another one when Sans breezes into the kitchen. Only the darkness under his eyesockets and a slight tension in his shoulders betrays him. Pulling the coffee carafe out of the machine, Sans pours himself a cup with steady hands and says casually, “Morning, edgelord.” 

Well, Edge was wondering how he’d handle this. Judging from years of living with Red, his money was on spiteful defiance or outright denial.

Edge stares at him in stony silence until the grin drops off Sans’s face. Only then does he say, “No. You don’t get to pretend that nothing happened.”

Nothing in Sans’s posture betrays his flinch. It’s all in his eyes. He drops his gaze to his coffee cup like he’s surprised to find it in his hand. Then he nods to himself, puts the cup back on the counter, and says, “Makes sense.”

“How kind of you to--” Edge starts, meaning to say something sharp about Sans approving of the reasonable boundary Edge put on this conversation, and then he’s alone in the room. The cup is still steaming, the only evidence that Sans was ever actually there instead of just a vivid figment of Edge’s imagination.

That went differently than Edge anticipated. He wanted last night’s incident to be dragged out into the open to be gutted and the remnants disposed of before it started to rot. It was supposed to make Sans drop the bullshit, but apparently he’s so attached to it he’d rather just yield his own territory to Edge instead.

That flinch...

No. If Sans didn’t have the sense to be afraid of Edge when they met, he isn’t now. Even as angry as he was last night, Edge had been careful not to get too close to Sans. It would’ve been too easy to forget that he wasn’t dealing with Red, who he’s allowed to grab by the scruff and shake when he’s being particularly infuriating. He’d given Sans space. There’s no reason to feel a little sick about the way Sans keeps turning throat.

For fuck’s sake. Edge has every right to be angry. He and Red have spent days snarling at each other, but they deal with it and move on. Emphasis on _deal with it_ , not whatever the fuck Sans had been trying to do.

Fine. Edge’ll see him tonight after work. It’s probably for the best to give his temper more time to cool off anyway.

***

Edge doesn’t see him that night. In fact, Edge doesn’t see him for the next week and a half, not any longer than it takes to get a flash of blue hoodie out of the corner of his eye or a quick “hey, edgelord,” in passing before he turns to find Sans gone. Occasionally he hears the sound of a shortcut being used, footsteps on the roof, but otherwise nothing. He tries to walk more quietly, but Sans seems to have Red’s uncanny sense for when trouble is coming. Sans isn’t even working his job at the park or Grillby’s. After a few days, Edge’s anger about the stunt Sans pulled with Red has been replaced by an entirely new anger that wherever Sans is sleeping, it’s sure as hell not in the house, which is a stupid risk to take for the sake of this passive-aggressive game he’s playing.

It’s all the more irritating because Sans is only avoiding him. Sometimes Edge can hear Papyrus talking to someone who’s gone before Edge gets there to find Papyrus alone, looking deeply aggravated. Red reports seeing him every day and that he’s fine, more or less, or at least no less fine than he was to begin with.

He’s tempted to corner Sans outside one of his other jobs, but it seems like crossing a line to stalk him to a workplace that’s not directly across the street from the embassy; he’s not Red, to whom most boundaries are more like friendly but stupid suggestions, and Sans isn’t in his collar.

No. Eventually, Sans is bound to get bored of this. Besides, approval for a house of their own comes through a few days after the whole idiotic incident, which is enough to keep him occupied. 

After living on the streets their entire childhood, Edge and Red will do fine sleeping on the floor until they manage to scrounge up furnishings for the house from various thrift stores or the dump. That plan lasts until Papyrus realizes that’s their intention, smiles brightly to conceal his horror, and proceeds to exploit every single resource he has to help them.

Suddenly, the king gives Edge a significant pay raise for no apparent reason. The queen spontaneously decides to replace her mattress and offer the old ones with a cheerful, “Oh yes, you and your brother are moving, are you not? Will you take this off an old lady’s hands? Thank you so much.” And because she is the queen, he can’t refuse her. And this Undyne is as relentless as his own; she harasses him for a week straight until he accepts her old furnishings from before she moved in with her Alphys just to shut her up.

Charity. Edge fucking _hates_ charity, but Red grudgingly says these people don’t seem to have ulterior motives other than making themselves feel better. Edge isn’t going to make Red sleep on a bare floor for the sake of his own pride. For one thing, Red is an even bigger dick when he’s in pain, and his joints aren’t as young as they used to be.

So between managing this sudden windfall and buying whatever he can to forestall any more generosity, he’s distracted. It’s a relief to lose himself in something as simple as choosing the softest sheets he can find. He’s not exactly expecting to have Sans pipe up from behind him at IKEA, “You gotta get a thing to go under the mattress.”

Edge whips around, jolted out of his contemplation of headboards with railings to cuff Red to. He stares at Sans, who grins mildly up at him, and asks like an idiot, “What?” 

“Think they call it a bed base,” Sans says. He nudges the bedframe with the toe of his slipper to demonstrate. “They sell it separately. Makes the price of the bedframe seem lower. Tori made that mistake. You don’t wanna give yourself a migraine getting a bork-bork-bork half built and then end up sleeping on the floor.”

Edge understood maybe a third of that and cares about none of it. He considers Sans. He looks tired, but his smile almost passes for cheerful. It’s an admirable effort, anyway.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Edge demands.

Sans shrugs. “Around. Heard your application got through.”

“Yes,” Edge says with limited patience. He is not going to choke Sans in the middle of a Swedish furniture labyrinth. “A week and a half ago. We’re moving in on Saturday.”

“Oh,” Sans says, clearly caught off guard. There’s a moment of awkward silence as Sans just stares at him. The world moves on around them, humans walking the aisles and chattering inanely about storage options. Then Sans shakes his head and gives Edge a crooked grin. “Didn’t realize it was that soon. Cool. Happy for you.”

The words ring hollow somehow. Edge narrows his eyes. “Are you.”

“Yep. Got your own bachelor pad.” A furrow appears between Sans’s brows as he seems to realize that’s not entirely accurate. It’s hardly a bachelor pad if Edge is living there with a lover. Recovering admirably from the fumble, Sans continues smoothly, “You can get a lava lamp or something. Nudie posters on the walls. One of those beds that rotates.”

Sans is rambling. If Red is any indication, he’ll go on like this for an hour if Edge lets him. Edge asks, “Did you come here to give me design suggestions or did you actually need something?”

“... Heh.” Sans redirects his gaze to the price tag dangling from the headboard. “Nope, just checking in. Looks like you’ve got the bed situation handled. Congrats.”

“I’m gratified by your faith in me,” Edge says dryly.

From the other side of the display room, a child suddenly gives one of those skull-rattling shrieks that could either mean they’re being murdered or slightly inconvenienced. Edge’s head snaps around, an automatic response to the noise. The child seems unharmed. There’s no blood on the floor, at least, and they seem pacified by the offer of a stuffed bunny to gnaw on. Edge doesn’t need to intervene.

“Do you want coffee?” Edge asks, still keeping an eye on the child just to be sure. Coffee is an acceptable compromise, not quite offering food but making a social overture. Besides, Sans looks like he could use it. Sans looks like he could use a lot of things. “They sell it here for some reason I can’t--”

When Edge looks back to where Sans was standing, he’s gone.

***

With Sans’s track record, Edge is honestly surprised that when Saturday comes around, Sans is actually there. Unfortunately, Edge is a little busy dealing with the herd of helpful-but-mostly-obstructive strangers who’ve invaded the house and the minutiae of moving the crap that they’ve somehow accumulated in the course of an month and a half to say more than the occasional word to Sans. Said words are usually, “Have you seen the box of (insert noun here)?”

It’s mid-afternoon by the time the claustrophobic invasion of people recedes into something tolerable. He doesn’t know how Sans and Papyrus stand it. It was setting Edge’s teeth on, well, edge (the goddamn puns are contagious) and this isn’t even his house. There’s a reason he puts Red on the duty of teleporting boxes from place to place, getting him out of the way, and he gets the feeling that his brother is taking his sweet time between trips with plenty of cigarette breaks and possibly a quick jaunt to the bar for a burger.

But eventually, the house is quiet and empty again. Alone, Edge lets out a slow breath and leans against the back of the couch for a moment to get his equilibrium back. He didn’t kill anyone even if he seriously considered it a few times. He thinks that counts as an achievement.

Then there’s a minor tear in the space-time continuum and Sans is standing in the middle of the living room. He’s sweating from exertion, breathing hard, his hoodie actually unzipped, which strikes Edge as downright pornographic after weeks of not even catching a stray glimpse of wrist or collarbone.

Apparently Red wasn’t the only one hauling boxes. Edge didn’t expect Sans to actually get his hands dirty, just supervise everyone else’s effort and crack wise. He feels some strange cocktail of affection, irritation at Sans for needlessly exhausting himself, and guilt for misjudging him.

Sans exhales, eerily like what Edge did a moment ago, and rolls his shoulders in the way Red does when he’s taken too many shortcuts in too short a time and is starting to feel it. His expression is more open than Edge has ever seen him, weary and strangely vulnerable. Edge feels like a voyeur.

Reluctantly, Edge clears his throat. Sans jerks guiltily, his head coming up to stare at Edge with wide eyes for a traitorous moment before he gives an indolent grin. “Hey, buddy. That ninja training is really working out for you.”

He’s not quite steady on his feet. Edge frowns at him. “For fuck’s sake, sit down before I have to pick you up off the floor.”

It’s not quite fussing over him. It’s within the acceptable threshold.

“Y’know, I move boxes for a living,” Sans says, but he comes to the couch and sits down. Somehow, he manages to do so passive-aggressively, like he’s humoring the crazy person. “Well, one fifth of a living, anyway.”

Edge gets up, retrieves a glass of water from the kitchen, and silently pushes it at Sans. It’s becoming a habit, but a glass of water is pretty much the limit of his skills as far as caretaking goes. Sans takes the glass like he’s expecting poison. He drinks it anyway, finishing it in a few long swallows. Edge says, “You’re pushing yourself too hard. I realize you want us out as soon as possible, but--”

That gets a reaction, unguarded surprise on Sans’s face. “What? Dude, no. Stay as long as you want.”

Edge has known his brother long enough and well enough to (usually) recognize when he’s outright lying. As far as he can tell, Sans is telling the truth. Some of the stiffness eases out of Edge’s spine, making him realize how much the thought of Sans withdrawing his welcome bothered him.

Looking away, Sans scratches the back of his neck. “I’m kinda rusty at, y’know, helping, but rental trucks are fucking expensive. No point wasting money. You guys are just starting out and everything, so.” Sans shrugs uncomfortably. “I’m not gonna drop your stuff. Already carted over the breakable things anyway.”

“That’s not--” Edge starts, aggravated, and registers the sudden, subtle tension in Sans’s shoulders at his tone. He wouldn’t see it if he wasn’t so well-trained to anticipate Red’s explosive temper, but he doesn’t think it’s anger in Sans’s carefully controlled expression. Fear? 

It hurts to see that more than Edge would’ve expected, a sick ache in his chest, a sour taste in his mouth. Snapping _I’m not going to hurt you_ would be counterproductive. Edge takes a breath and is about to try again when Sans gives him a cheerful grin that’s obscene against the bleak look in his eyes. “Besides, if anybody’s chomping at the bit to get out of here, it’s you. Can’t really blame you.”

“You haven’t been here,” Edge says. “How do you know what I want?”

Sans’s grin skews. Then he bends and puts the glass on the floor, wiping the condensation off on his shorts before he stands up. Putting his hands on his lower spine, he stretches like old Gerson, his vertebrae giving quiet little pops. His satisfied groan is probably going to linger in Edge’s imagination for a while. 

“Think you were right about pushing it. I’m gonna go take a nap.” Sans’s expression suddenly shifts to alarm. “Uh, the mattress--”

“It’s been cleaned,” Edge says. “Thoroughly. And I changed the sheets.”

“Sheets. Right,” Sans says slowly, like Edge is speaking a foreign language. “Anyway, Red was almost done with the last couple boxes. You oughta be good to go soon.” Sans holds his hand out. “Been nice having you around, edgelord.”

A rather weak sentiment, considering that Sans has been doing his best to avoid his own house for fear of running into him, but again, it doesn’t seem to be entirely a lie. Sans almost looks wistful.

If Red was offering his hand to shake, he would have a sharpened attack up his sleeve just waiting to cut someone’s hand open. Edge takes his hand and whatever pain comes with it, but there’s nothing but Sans’s bones, sleek and slightly warm to the touch.

“Thank you,” Edge says. Then, because Sans doesn’t understand the depth of those two small words: “I owe you a debt. I’m not sure I can pay it yet.”

“Nah. You don’t owe me anything. We’re solid.” Shoving his hand back in his pocket, Sans rocks on his heels for a second as he studies Edge like he’s not sure what to say. There’s regret in his eyes. “Good luck with… heh, everything, I guess. You’re gonna do great.”

Perhaps the sentiment should be condescending, but Edge can’t be offended. He’s too occupied with realizing that sounded like goodbye. Sans thinks Edge is going to take his food, his kindness and the safety of his home, and then leave and never look back.

Edge begins, his tone a gentle one that Red would make him bleed for, “Sans--”

Too late. Again, Sans leaves him talking to an empty room. It’s beginning to be a theme.

If Sans was Red, Edge would go up the stairs, fling open his bedroom door and continue this conversation. At top volume and while dodging a few sharp bones aimed at his face, probably. It would be simple. Edge would know what the fuck to do.

Where the hell did Sans get the idea that his only value was in being useful? Why did he assume that Edge would turn his back on him just because he got angry? He thought his loyalty had been embarrassingly obvious, but--

But he’d misjudged, clearly, and done what he couldn’t by greeting Sans at the point of a weapon. Sans doesn’t trust him. Sans is afraid of what Edge might do.

Edge closes his eyes and grinds his palms into his eye sockets, vicious enough for bright lights to swim in his vision. He has to maintain control. The pain will clear his head. To himself, he says, “I can fix this.”

It’ll take time. It’ll take patience, coming back again and again, proving himself devoted and steadfast. Fine. Edge has patience in spades.

There’s a muted pop, a sound familiar enough that Edge doesn’t even flinch. Red says, wary, “Boss?”

Dropping his hands, Edge says, “Are you finished?”

“Yep. Papyrus… uh, y’know, the other Papyrus is still at our place. Think he’s putting curtains up.” Red glances around the room as if someone is concealing themselves beneath the furniture. He doesn’t look exhausted, but then Red wasn’t trying to make up for his guilt. “Where’s the asshole?”

“He’s in his bedroom,” Edge says. “Leave him be.”

Red eyes him, then the closed door at the top of the stairs. Edge braces himself for a brutally insightful comment, but Red only shrugs. “If you say so. We done here?”

“We can go,” Edge says.

But by no means is he done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Content warnings: references to Sans deciding Red was coercing Edge into sex, flashback to Red and Edge surviving on the street as kids, reference to Sans and Red's unhealthy relationship with alcohol, Edge and Sans having a culture clash over how to deal with conflict that ends with both of them being confused and sad as fuck, Edge uses pain to clear his head
> 
> "Death and romance, the riddles of our lifetimes  
> Trying to get a slow dance, middle of a knife fight  
> You get up and you give blood  
> Even on a good night."  
> \- Dessa, The Crow


	13. tempest in a teacup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Asgore have a conversation that's been a long time coming. 
> 
> (First half is set during the time that Sans is out of town with Papyrus, the second about a week or so later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

They’re still in bed, having fucked out some of the frustration of Sans deciding to skip town without a warning, when Edge sighs and asks, “How did you sabotage the machine?”

Looks like somebody finally swung by Sans and Papyrus’s to check on the portal to hell. Surprisingly, Edge seems more resignedly annoyed than blackout furious that Red locked the door back to their universe and threw away the key.

Red shrugs. “If I don’t tell you, you won’t be lying when you tell Assgore you don’t know what happened.”

“You should have spoken to me first.”

“Why bother? I woulda done it whatever you said.” Edge doesn’t look moved by Red’s logic. Red takes the low blow. “She’ll kill Sans. You know that.”

Undyne will try to kill Edge, like after her bullshit she’s the one with the right to feel betrayed. And Edge, who could probably take her, will flinch from the killing blow because they were (emphasis on _were_ ) friends and get himself dusted. But does that matter to the dumb bastard? Nope.

“Sans is much harder to kill than you’d think,” Edge says, but there’s a grudging acknowledgement in his expression that Red’s got a point. “You should have told me, at least.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Red concedes. Screw it. Might as well give an inch and bite him if he tries to take a mile. “Besides, why the fuck would you want to go back to that shithole?”

“I wouldn’t want to go back,” Edge says. “Not to stay. I...”

He stops. Probably because whatever he was about to say is so monumentally stupid even he realizes it.

“You wanna help people,” Red says sourly, filling in the blanks. “Feed the poor starving orphans and widows. Rescue stray kittens. Be pals with Undyne again. Save everyone from themselves. Ain’t that right?”

Edge says nothing, eyeing him. He’s clearly waiting for Red to go for his throat. And fuck knows Red should. His fingers twitch with how easy it would be.

He’s been _trying_ not to be such an asshole. It’d be nice if Sans and Edge would give him a fucking break and not spout suicidal bullshit.

Red swallows his anger, a-fucking-gain. It’s going to bleed out elsewhere. It always does. He’s got another bad day coming, probably soon, but he doesn’t lose control right now. That’s something. Terse, he says, “You’re just gonna die for people who don’t give a shit about you. If I’m not allowed to die, neither are you.”

Edge’s expression softens a little. Red probably should’ve tried to stab him. “I have no intention of dying.”

“Coulda fooled me, boss.”

“It’s a moot point,” Edge says, sadly not rising to the bait. “Neither of us are going back anytime soon.”

“Try ever.”

“We can’t predict the future, brother.” Ignoring Red’s angry hiss, Edge strokes his thumb down the column of Red’s spine, lingering on a fresh bite mark he left there. “The king will have questions.”

“Lemme handle that,” Red says. Edge’s jaw tightens; he isn’t happy about that idea. Red gives the back of his head a gentle smack. Relatively gentle, anyway. Red has limits. “I’m the one who can fix the machine. I know all the confusing technobabble. I got this.”

“He’s not a fool,” Edge warns. “At least not entirely. Be careful.”

Red grins at him. “Aw, boss. Ain’t I always?”

***

"Howdy, Red," Asgore says. "Can I borrow you for a moment?"

This is what Red gets for lingering in the embassy longer than it takes to plant a bug, hand in a report or blow Edge under his desk. He stopped to check on the kid and make sure they weren't getting worked too hard. Big mistake.

After the initial flurry of pointless meetings when they first came to this universe, Red’s managed to mostly avoid Asgore. He keeps an eye on what Asgore’s doing (technology is a helluva thing) but he doesn’t want to be near the guy if he doesn’t have to be. It makes him twitchy.

(Fuck it. He can admit it. It scares the shit out of him, old instincts firing no matter how much he tells himself this isn’t the same Asgore. And when he’s spooked, he gets angry.)

At the other end of the hallway, Edge pauses. He's got one hand on Frisk's shoulder, headed towards the cafeteria to get the squirt some grub before their next meeting. His expression is a silent question: does Red want him to come back and run interference? Asgore isn't what the tyrant was ( _thanks, Sans, have a lifetime supply of orgasms for your trouble_ ) but there's a bristling defensiveness to Edge's posture like he's ready for this to go bad.

Red shakes his head. He’s gonna have to deal with this sooner or later. Reluctantly, Edge turns away. Red’ll text him when he gets out of the meeting, proof that he's alive and unharmed. Otherwise Edge'll give himself an ulcer over it, and the guy doesn't even have organs. 

When Red glances at Asgore, there's no doubt that he figured out what that was about. He looks a little pained, guilty over shit he didn't even do.

"Of course, your highness," Red says, twisting the knife with an ironic bow. "I live to serve."

Looking resigned, Asgore turns and heads towards his office, and Red follows. Idiotic of Asgore to make it so easy for Red to stab him in the back when he knows Red is a killer. Edge must have his fucking hands full, trying to keep this dumbass alive. 

They make their way through the embassy. Asgore stops to talk to people, exchanging bullshit niceties, listening to problems that ought to be handled by his goddamn interns. Red picks up some decent intel, but not enough to make up for the fact that he could be doing his job right now. Hell, he could be doing _Sans_ right now.

Finally, they make it to Asgore's office. Dogamy and Dogaressa are outside the door, exchanging schmoopy bullshit. They tense up when they see Red at Asgore's back, the fur at their napes bristling. 

"Give us a few minutes, will you not?" Asgore asks. "Perhaps you could play a little fetch in the park. It's a beautiful day outside."

Both of them stare at Asgore like he just volunteered to rip out his own beating soul. Monsters from this world talk a good game about forgiveness and acceptance, but it took people months to thaw to Edge, who’s actually trying to fit in. Red, they mostly watch like they can smell the dust on him. Red winks at them.

"Off you go," Asgore says, literally shooing them. "Fifteen minutes at least. Maybe twenty. If you see Undyne before you go, just tell her it's on my orders."

The Dogi exchange a look. Then they slink off like they were scolded for stealing a pork chop off the dinner table. Red would bet money that they're going straight to tell Undyne what's going on, which means she’ll be around soon with some excuse to pound on the door and interrupt what they’re doing. She trusts Edge. She’s not stupid enough to trust Red.

"Thank you!" Asgore calls after them. Then he unlocks his office door and holds it open for Red, gesturing him in. "Please, after you."

Polite bastard. Red slides past him and plants his back against the wall beside the door, crossing his arms.

Asgore closes the door, shutting them into an office that suddenly seems too small. The knot around Red’s soul draws a little tighter even as Asgore goes to hover awkwardly behind his huge desk. Hopefully, Asgore asks, "Would you like some tea? I find that always makes a meeting eas--"

"This ain't gonna take that long," Red says. "Sir."

That takes the air out of Asgore’s _gosh golly, aren’t I so clueless and nice_ act. He sighs and sits down, folding his hands in front of him. “Your brother gave me a full report. To a degree.”

“You calling him a liar, your highness?” Red asks mildly.

Asgore doesn’t go for that attempt to derail the conversation. Maybe he’s too used to dealing with Sans. “He told me that any question I had regarding the transuniversal machine should be referred to you. So I am asking. How soon can we make contact with your universe?”

“Let’s see.” Red scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Prob’ly six years, sir. Give or take.”

That sure catches Asgore off guard. “Years?”

“That’s how long it took me and Sansy to fix it the first time.” Red shrugs. “Enough to get it to work once, anyway. Must’ve been too much for it. The entropy engine blew. Damn thing pretty much melted. Sir.”

Asgore leans back in his chair, not pleased with the news. All Red’s nerves prickle, telling him to brace for the paternal sigh of disappointment and the order that’ll follow. _Captain, bring me the lieutenant. My judge is being insubordinate again._

Asgore is too weak. He won't do that.

But if he does…

Let him try. Now they’re not trapped in the mountain with nowhere to run and an ugly execution waiting for them even if they somehow managed to kill the tyrant. Sans killed a king with his hands cuffed, and Red is much, much better at murder. He’s not letting this shit happen again.

But Asgore just sits there, looking at him with sad eyes that make Red want to slap the taste out of his mouth. Asgore says, “I see. Would Sans give me the same answer?”

Red doesn’t tell him to stay the fuck away from Sans. There’s no point exposing a vulnerability for Asgore to use against them. Sure, Sans has been avoiding Asgore since he killed the tyrant, but he can handle himself when his back is to a wall for all that he doesn’t act like it. A little more emotional trauma on top of everything else he’s dealing with won’t dust him.

Yeah. Repeat that often enough and maybe Red won’t shank Asgore right now as a warning.

“Sans didn’t make the part of the machine that blew out, your highness,” Red says. “That’s why the machine wasn’t working until I got a hold of it. He’s a fucking genius, don’t get me wrong, but he doesn’t know how to build an entropy engine. I do.”

Which is why he picked the entropy engine to destroy. Better to leave Sans out of it. He’s more likely to get guilt-tripped into fixing the machine than Red is.

(And if Red misjudged Asgore and what he’s willing to do, he doesn’t know how well Sans would hold up under torture. He doesn’t want to know.)

“I see,” Asgore says again. The tyrant was actually pretty lousy at reading people, too caught up in his own head, but this one seems sharper, like he’s following what Red’s not saying. Red doesn’t like it.

“It’s delicate work,” Red says. His soul is pounding faster the longer this meeting drags on, a hot pulse behind his eyes, but his words come out even. “Can’t rush it, sir. Unless for some reason you _want_ the engine to backfire and open a wormhole to the vacuum of space, in which case hey, be my fucking guest.”

Asgore cracks a polite smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Thank you, Red. That’s a very helpful explanation.”

There’s a but coming. Before it arrives, Red straightens and says quickly, “No problem, your highness. Welp, I’m just gonna get back to doing my job, so--”

“One moment,” Asgore says. “May I ask how long would it take you to fix it if you actually wanted it fixed?”

Goddamnit.

Slowly, Red sinks back against the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“I understand your reluctance,” Asgore says, all patience and genuine sympathy that makes Red’s teeth itch. How fucking dare he sit there and condescend. “But the people there need--”

All that frustrated anger has its price. Red snaps.

“Shut up,” Red says, biting off each word to better spit them in Asgore's face. “You don't know a goddamn thing about what we need.”

It’s the kind of insubordination people get executed for. The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look angry. “No, you’re right. I apologize. It might help if you explain what--”

“You think we’re all just poor little savages waiting for somebody to teach us to play nice and share our toys,” Red says. He’s wasting his breath, but all the bitterness of the last nine months is welling up like blood in his mouth. All his anger at these people and their pity. At the tyrant, whose face Asgore wears, for the things he’d done to Edge, the cracks in Red’s ribs he’d made Edge put there, the way he said _my judge_ , the fact that Red hadn’t even been the one to watch him die. He can’t swallow it all, spewing venom to keep from choking on it. “Well, fuck you, buddy! Some things you can’t fix.”

That strikes a chord. But then it would, when Asgore has the blood of six little kids on his hands. Quietly, Asgore says, “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

“You’ve spent all your time around my bro,” Red says. “But most of us ain’t like him. We’ll take your food and promise to play nice and then stab you in the back. Not just you, every single bleeding heart sap up here. Open that door and you’re taking a stupid risk with all the lives of your people, and I’m gonna be honest. We’re not fucking worth it.”

There is a heavy silence. He can hear himself breathing. He needs Edge. He needs to smoke something. He needs to kill something. He needs out of this tiny, too-hot room, but he can’t walk away from an interrogation.

Asgore studies him for a moment. Then he asks, “How many people have you killed, Red?”

Right. Like Asgore didn’t ask his judge that question as soon as he found out what kind of world Red and Edge came from. He’s not that stupid. He’s probably got the number in a file somewhere. He needed it to balance Red and Edge’s ledgers and figure out if they were allowed to roam free instead of living in a well-appointed cage to be rehabilitated like the other criminals.

“I lost count,” Red lies. “A lot.”

Asgore nods. “More than most of the people in your universe?”

Red wishes he could go _how the fuck am I supposed to know?_ but he’s a judge and Asgore knows it. He shrugs. “Yeah. Reconsidering that cell with my name on it?”

“Have you killed anyone since you’ve been here?”

Red scoffs. “I know what you’re trying to say, and it’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“You say you’re among the worst of them. You stand before me, clearly furious and afraid for your family--”

“Don’t talk about my fucking family!” Red snarls.

“You want to hurt me, and yet here I am, alive and unhurt,” Asgore says.

Red hates him, a searing hate that’s all for him instead of some echo of how much he hated the tyrant. He can’t risk looking away, so he stares back at Asgore and tries to murder him with sheer force of will.

It’s just the two of them in this office. The guards are gone. He could do it. He could make Asgore pay for talking at him like this before anybody can intervene. He doesn’t even have to pull a weapon, just let the judge slip and Asgore will do the dirty work for him. This one is weaker. Softer. It would be easy.

Red could do it. He wants to.

The kid, though. He’s their dad, and the kid would be upset about it. Papyrus would make disappointed faces. Edge would bitch mightily and probably feel guilty or something. And they’d have to run for it, him and Edge. He doesn’t know if Sans would come with them. Shame to miss out on half the sex just for the sake of this pathetic old man who isn’t even threatening what belongs to Red. It’s not worth it.

It’d be fun, though.

“People can change,” Asgore says, apparently taking Red’s silence for him winning the argument instead of Red doing the mental calculus on whether to bother killing him. “Even men like us.”

(Involuntary as a flinch, Red thinks of the only time he ever saw Edge drunk. He’d been sixteen, maybe, and got into Red’s stash. His LV had gone up again, and it was riding him hard. Red remembers Edge asking him, looking haunted and so fucking young, “Do you think even the worst person can change?”)

(Red had taken the bottle out of Edge’s hand and told him to go the fuck to sleep. It seemed kinder than saying no, he didn’t, there were some things you couldn’t take back. Then he’d sat there by the couch, watching Edge sleep the sleep of the innocent or completely hammered, and told himself it was just so Edge didn’t choke on his puke in the middle of the night and die like an idiot. He told himself he wasn’t breaking his own rules.)

(He sat there all night, running a soothing hand over the curve of Edge’s skull when his sleep got uneasy, because he loved that brave, stupid kid so goddamn much, and he knew he couldn’t save him.)

The memory cracks his thoughts like a cheap cup, and most of the anger runs uselessly out of him. In the aftermath, he’s wrung-out and shaky and nobody’s bleeding. It’s the worst.

“That’s great,” Red says tiredly. “Everybody’s moved. But I’m still not fixing the goddamn machine. Do whatever you want.”

Asgore frowns at him. Then, almost cautiously, he asks, “What is it you think I’m going to do?”

Holy fuck, these people are naive. It’s so nice of Asgore to give him this golden opportunity to be an asshole. Red says with vicious cheer, “Well, it’s kinda hard to keep someone in a cell for longer than a couple minutes if they know a shortcut. You could put magic suppressor cuffs on me, but honestly, cuffs or not, I can lockpick my way out of those cells in about two minutes flat and kill whatever guards you put in my way. And torture’s not as effective as it looks on TV, but you could give it a shot. Might not wanna break any fingers if you want me to fix that machine, though. They could heal crooked. I suggest you go for the ribs.”

Asgore looks sick. Good. Let him choke on it. Shaking his head, Asgore says quietly, “That isn’t how we do things here.”

“It’s how we do things back home,” Red says. “The new bitch in charge sure as hell took her turn at the wheel. Maybe you oughta think about that before you decide you wanna let her start a war.”

“Don’t call her that,” Asgore says sharply, the first flare of temper he’s shown this whole time. Interesting. In this universe, Asgore actually gives a shit about her. When Red raises his brows, Asgore clears his throat. “There’s no need to use that kind of language.”

“Well, fuck, what was I thinking,” Red says. “I oughta be polite about the backstabbing asshole who’s gonna kill my brother if she sees him again. Sans too. And probably Frisk, since she ganked a version of them once already. But I guess you're good with that. Real father of the year material.” Asgore flinches a little. Good. Red continues, “Are we done?”

Right on cue, there’s a knock on the door. It’s too polite to be this Undyne, who knocks like she’s a one-woman battering ram. Before Asgore can say anything, the door opens and there’s Edge in the doorway. It’d be hard for most people to tell from Edge’s expression that his sidelong glance is checking Red over for damage, and heaven fucking help Asgore if he finds any.

Apparently reassured by the fact that Red’s not bleeding out on the floor, Edge looks at Asgore. “I apologize for the interruption, sir, but the chair of the board of education is here early.”

Odds are good that Edge told Asgore’s secretary to call and say their meeting had been pushed up. Overprotective bastard.

“That’s fine. We were just finishing up.” Before Red can take the opportunity to get out while he’s distracted, Asgore continues, “I simply ask that you take some time to think about it, Red. Please.”

“Sure,” Red says. He’ll think about it. Mostly, he’ll think _nope, that’s a terrible idea, and fuck that guy for asking._ “Bye.”

As Red slips past Edge, slipping a bug onto the outside of the doorframe on his way past because this might as well not be a total waste of his time, Asgore says, “And you’re mistaken. You were worth the risk. And so are they.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Red can see Edge look sharply at him.

If Red turns around, there's a good chance he's going to end up trying to carve out one of Asgore’s big sad eyes, and Edge will probably feel obligated to stop him. Red gives Asgore the finger over his shoulder, getting some scandalized looks from stray bureaucrats, and walks away. 

He hates this fucking building and all these fucking people who think they know him. This whole universe can fuck off until he gets a blowjob from Sans and eats a cheeseburger to wipe the taste of preachy bullshit out of his mouth. It’s like they think he’s domesticated or something. It makes him want to burn the whole stupid world down to remind them who he is. What he is.

Joke’s on Asgore, trying to get him to change his mind with a little all expenses paid guilt trip. It’s nothing Red hasn’t thought of. He’s a hardass, but he knows the starving kids on the other side of that door didn’t do a goddamn thing wrong. He knows he’s leaving Alphys behind to overdose one of these days. He _knows_.

He can live with that.

He’s not losing Edge. He’s not losing Sans, or Papyrus, who has no place being in a war, or Frisk. If that means some sleepless nights, then so be it.

His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, fully prepared to drop it in a trash can if it’s Edge wanting to talk about his fucking feelings. But no, it’s Sans. Red picks up. “Hey, sweetheart. Nice day for a bootycall, huh?”

“Actually, I was checking to see if your refrigerator was running. Y’know, what its position on the important policy issues are,” Sans says. Red can practically see the narrow-eyed assessing expression that goes with that tone. “You okay? You sound weird.”

Rude. You don’t see Red asking Sans about _his_ feelings even when he’s being embarrassingly obvious. Red clears his throat. “Oh, yeah, I was choking on a dick a couple minutes ago. Trying to readjust. You know how it is.”

Asgore’s secretary, walking past him in the hall, turns to gawk at him. Red gives his best terrifying grin and they avert their eyes.

“No,” Sans says, in a voice that says he’s not buying Red’s bullshit for a second but he’ll let it go out of the goodness of his heart. “I’ve got no idea. Enlighten me. Really walk me through the dick-sucking process.”

Aw, Sans always knows how to turn his mood around. Red pushes the door to the embassy open and takes a deep breath of the air outside. He didn’t realize how much some part of him expected to be shoved in a cell as soon as he told Asgore no.

But nope, here he is, a free man with a whole wide world to roam. Food to eat, a warm bed to sleep in, two talented dudes to fuck any time he wants. Maybe he should feel guilty for that, considering the things he's done. He doesn’t.

“Sure, I can walk you through it step by step,” Red says, stepping out of the shadow of the embassy. He means to soak up a little sunlight before going home. “Your place or mine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references and the occasional flashback to Fellgore forcing Edge to torture Red, references to Fellgore committing suicide, references to UT!Asgore killing the six human children, Red seriously contemplates murdering UT!Asgore a few times, Red's moral philosophy continues to be "so long as Edge is alive, then fuck everything else."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [devil eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18121211) by [LyraLV](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV)




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